Little (big) Brother is Watching You
by iRamble
Summary: A hunt gone wrong sends Sam back in time to his childhood, giving him a second chance to glimpse all the ways in which Dean was an awesome big brother. But with Dean's life in danger, can Sam save him in time to tell Dean he was the best big brother ever?
1. Chapter 1: Time and Again

**Little (big) Brother is Watching You**

 _A hunt gone wrong sends Sam back in time to his childhood, showing him all the ways in which Dean was an awesome big brother. But with Dean's life in danger, can Sam save him in time to tell Dean he was the best big brother ever?_

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Disclaimer: _All characters appearing in Supernatural are copyright Kripke/CW/WB etc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended. This fanfic is my original work of fiction based on those character/that universe._

 _AN – No spoilers for any episodes, though one or two subtle and very minor nods to incidental conversations/moments that occurred now and then. However, no knowledge of those conversations or instances is needed to follow the thread of the fic, and I don't think anything in the fic will spoil your enjoyment of any episode/s you haven't yet seen._

 _Also, this fic is not set in any specific season, so can be read no matter where in the series you are, however Cas exists, and season specific angst/resentment is missing._

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 _ **Chapter 1: Time and Again**_

"Darona-Khab."

Those were not words a person would normally be greeted with when entering a room, so Sam figured he had a right to be baffled. Despite that however, the smug grin on Dean's face as he'd said them made Sam feel instantly foolish for his ignorance, as if he were missing something completely obvious. Dean had an annoying ability to somehow invoke that feeling in Sam, always had; to make him doubt his common sense and make him squirm a little inside. No matter how old he got, it always left him feeling as if he were a kid again trying to keep up with the older, cooler, brother, struggling to be aware of the latest in-thing that his older sibling seemed to innately know but that no one had bothered to clue Sam up about. Even now, at this age, it would take just one self-assured look from Dean to make Sam feel like he was floundering in a spotlight. Even his professors at Stanford hadn't managed to do that. At least not as well as Dean could.

He pushed that feeling down, slightly irritated, as he headed to where Dean sat grinning smugly.

"What?" Sam asked, handing Dean one of the beers he was carrying and not even bothering to hide his confusion as he settled across the table from him.

"Darona. Khab." Dean repeated glibly, as if enunciating the words made them self-explanatory. He sat back in his chair, closing the heavy leather-bound tome in front of him and taking a triumphant swig of beer as if to punctuate his point.

Sam's look of confusion only added to Dean's sense of smug self-satisfaction and he relished in it unashamedly, his grin widening.

Sam, in Dean's opinion, was definitely the brains in the family. He probably would be in any family. Not that he'd ever admit that out loud to Sammy, but internally he'd acknowledged this a long, long time ago. Even Stanford's full ride scholarship hadn't really surprised Dean. He'd been proud of his little brother of course, but not all that surprised. Sam was the smart one. Hands down, slam dunk, no contest, case closed.

Dean wouldn't debate that, except that by default it sometimes made him feel like the dumb one. He was the grunt, and no-one ever really expected anything from a grunt other than soldiering and smashing and killing. Why would anyone expect someone who was perceived as just a blunt hunting instrument to have any intelligence or knowledge retention abilities beyond where to hit and how hard? It didn't particularly bother Dean, most of the time.

But on occasions like this, when they'd both been struggling for days to identify the thing they were hunting, and it turned out that it was _Dean_ , not Sam, who eventually figured it out? Well, he enjoyed milking and savouring these moments just a little. He took another mouthful of beer and waited.

"Okaaaaay…" Sam responded at last, hesitantly, sounding with every note like a man who knew he was walking into a baited trap. "So what's a… a Drona Carb?"

"Not carb, man. Khab. It's more guttural and elongated, see? Khhaab. Khhaaaab. Say it with me, khhhhaaaaaa–"

"Dude!"

"OK, OK." Dean relented, acknowledging the limits, a slight crooked grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth despite it all as he reopened the large book and pushed it towards Sam. "It's an ancient Asian Djinn-like creature responsible for nightmares. The name literally means 'scary dream'."

"And you think that's what's responsible for the comatose victims?"

"It all fits man. Look…" And Dean began rattling off a list of traits which Sam had to reluctantly admit, all fit the profile of their mystery monster of the week pretty accurately. Sam drank his own beer as he listened, quietly marvelling at how ingeniously Dean had managed to put it all together and figure it out.

Apart from the appearance of identical dull blue marks on each of the victims, there had been very little evidence to go on when they'd finished their initial investigation. Even that marks could rationally have been attributed as the trait of some new virus or disease or some other such normal and mundane thing, not something otherworldly. In fact at one point Sam had begun to question whether it wasn't all just coincidental and that in fact there wasn't anything supernatural there for them to hunt at all. If he was honest, he was hoping there wouldn't be; he'd had an unsettled feeling the moment they'd started this hunt. But Dean had been adamant that there was something untoward going on, and Sam had trusted his brother's instincts.

As it turned out, Dean had been right. But then, Sam wasn't really all too surprised by that. Dean's instincts were almost always right. And it wasn't just luck either, it was a higher level of mental functioning, and Sam believed in that enough to trust that when his older brother had a gut feeling, it meant he'd twigged on to something that no one else had caught up to yet, let alone figured out. Even if sometimes Dean wouldn't, or couldn't, explain himself, somewhere in that thick smug skull of his, the cogs were doing overtime, connections other people wouldn't even know to see were becoming visible, and the pieces were falling into place.

Dean was sharper than any other hunter Sam had ever known, including their father. As far as Sam was concerned, instincts were just another form of intelligence. And on that count alone, Dean was probably a genius in his own way, was definitely more intelligent than most people, even he himself, gave him credit for. When you mixed that with Dean's strategical mind and determination, Sam doubted if there was anything his older sibling couldn't do or anyone he couldn't outsmart.

Of course there was no way Sam would ever admit that out loud. It wasn't as if Dean needed any encouragement to be a smug jerk at times.

"… And that's why there's no sign of forced entry." Dean concluded, sitting back and draining the last dregs of beer.

"Okay so…" Sam began, thinking out loud as he took in all the information Dean had just unearthed and debriefed at him, "So this thing–"

"Darona-Khab." Dean interjected with a nod, remnants of smugness resurfacing.

"Whatever, this thing, it attacks people in their sleep. But the reason there's no sign of attack is that it's also marked them some time in the past, without them knowing, and then… what? Waits to attack them again? Like time travel or something?"

"Well best I can figure is, it marks its victims in their sleep when they're young, which is actually pretty smart in a sick twisted sort of way. I mean who's gonna take a kid seriously if a he complains about being attacked by monsters in his nightmares, right? Then once it's marked them, it waits until they're adults, and when they're fully grown, it tracks them down, reconnects with them in their sleep again and boom! One 30 year matured Happy Meal coming right up. This time however, the victims don't wake up like they did when they were kids, they fall into a coma instead, which is essentially like a sleep paralysis, while it feeds on their life energy or whatever. Then when they're drained, it just moves on. That explains why there's no sign of recent attacks, because they _weren't_ attacked recently, they were _originally_ attacked years, decades ago. It selected them and marked them and now it's collecting them…"

Sam nodded, impressed. "You're right." he conceded. "It all tracks."

"The only thing I haven't figured out is why it picked these people." Dean continued, all traces of smugness now gone as he tapped a finger on the manila folder marked 'vics'. "I mean apart from the married couple, the others don't seem to have anything else in common with each other, other than being similar ages and… and well, other than being vics."

Sam mulled this over, thinking about everything Dean had uncovered and something occurred to him. He got up to retrieve his laptop, talking over his shoulder as he went.

"You said this thing marks its victims when they're kids right? And then waits years till they grow up?"

"Yeah, but I don't know how it selects them. I mean you saw the list right? They were all over the place. It was just dumb luck that the married couple made the news. A husband and wife _both_ falling into a coma in the _same_ night? And for no reason anyone could come up with?" He shook his head. "That's gotta be an X-File right there."

Sam had returned and was pulling up files on the handful of victims, eyes intensely focussed as his fingers flew over the keyboard.

"There!" He said, swivelling the computer around so Dean could see the screen. "All of the victims, including the husband and wife, grew up in the same neighbourhood. And apart from the married couple, the others all obviously left home and moved away when they grew up which is why it _looks_ as though the victims are all over the place. But we were seeing them when they were grown up, thinking this thing was going all over the country to select them. But it wasn't, not back when it _actually_ selected them. Back then the victims were all in the same place. The husband and wife never left the town, but the others did, which is why they're far apart from each other when they fell into a coma, but they _weren't_ when they were _originally_ marked as kids. That must've been its feeding ground back then." Sam looked up at Dean expecting to find him looking begrudgingly impressed, but instead saw his brothers face screwed up in intense concentration, almost slight confusion, as he stared at the screen. "What?" Sam asked, curiosity piqued despite his mild annoyance that Dean wasn't looking appreciative.

"It's just… Camberville right? That's where all the victims grew up? That sounds familiar." He reached across the table to a pile of books and pulled their fathers journal out from under the stack. He rifled through the pages then pushed it over to Sam, pointing to an entry early on. "I knew I'd heard of that town before. We were there."

Sam was amazed, both at Dean's mental recall and at the odds of their father actually being on the same hunt. "You think dad was hunting this thing?" He wondered out loud as he quickly scanned the short entry. It was indeed the right town, or seemed to be, but there was no indication of any children with nightmares or victims in comas. In fact there were barely any details at all, other than the dates of when they were there. "Huh…" He mused out loud. "We were there for a few days… Do you remember this?" He asked looking up at his brother.

Dean shook his head, shrugging. "No. I don't at all. I just remembered seeing the town's name in Dad's journal. It might actually just be a coincidence." Dean conceded, sounding slightly deflated.

"Dude. It's a pretty big coincidence. It's the right sort of time, year wise." Sam countered, looking back at the entry and then catching Dean's gaze. "All the victims would still be kids. The dates match, see?" He turned the journal back towards Dean to show him.

Dean let out a sigh. "Yeah, maybe. But whatever it was, Dad clearly didn't figure it out because he doesn't mention anything like it. Besides why would he be investigating kid's having nightmares when nothing actually happened to those kids. I mean not back then anyway."

Sam mulled this over. "True… Okay maybe it _is_ just a coincidence, but either way, we need to figure out how to stop this thing now."

"Yeah, that might be tricky on two counts. There's not that much lore about these things, it seems they're pretty rare and pretty ancient, but what I did find suggests it can be anywhere when it feeds. I mean _anywhere_. Since it already marked the victims' years in advance and attacks them in their sleep, it doesn't need to be physically near them when it feeds on them. It just tracks them like GPS or something."

"Okay, so maybe there's a locator spell we could use to find it. Like reverse tracking through one of the victims or something. What's the second problem?"

"You can only kill it with a silver blade dipped in goat's blood."

"What's so tricky about that?" Sam asked, not sure what he was missing.

"The blood has to come from a goat that's been sacrificed for Eid Al-Adha, which is an Islamic celebration." Sam opened his mouth to respond but Dean cut him off. "I already checked with the local mosque. There's only one Eid Al-Adha per year, and the next one isn't for another two months."

"Dean these people don't have two months."

"I know. But that seems to be the only way… unless…"

Sam waited expectantly, giving his brother space to formulate whatever it was that had just occurred to him.

"You mentioned spells… what if there was some kind of spell to trap it? We might not be able to kill it, but maybe we could trap it and hold it until we get the goat's blood. I mean it probably wouldn't kill it but at least it would stop it feeding. I'm not even sure we could but…"

"It's worth a try." Sam finished, as they both stood.

Fuelled by a renewed sense of energy and purpose, the routine mechanics of hunting roped them back to familiar ground. They had a plan, they had something to work towards. They could see a way to save those people. For the time being at least, it felt good to be back on track.

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The locator spell had worked and as luck would have it, the creature was holed up in a long since abandoned timber mill on the outskirts of town. That was where their luck had ended though, because in the time it had taken to collect the ingredients for the locator spell, and to find and modify a second incantation that could possibly trap the creature, one of the victims had died. The remaining were fading fast. In an ideal world they would have preferred to wait till they had a full days' worth of sunlight ahead of them, especially given that they were hunting a creature that neither of them had encountered before. But when had their lives ever been lived in an ideal world. And besides, with so many lives at stake, Dean had made it clear that waiting would not be an option. He'd had no argument from Sam.

As the Impala rumbled to a stop outside the sprawling boarded up structure of the mill, the sun had already slipped behind the mountainous tree lined horizon and a deep blue-grey darkness was creeping in, seemingly from all sides. Neither Sam nor Dean liked this. The structure was too large, the enemy unfamiliar, and they had no way of knowing if their incantation to trap the creature would even work. But for what it was worth, it was the two of them against the one of it.

As they stepped out of the car and headed towards the trunk to retrieve their weapons, Sam quietly reminded himself of this. Two Winchesters versus one monster. Those were good odds. They'd faced much, much worse.

Why, then, did he have this horrible feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, weighing down his insides and leaving his mouth so dry that it hurt every time he swallowed. To say he had a bad feeling about this hunt would be a colossal understatement.

If Dean felt the same though, there was no indication of it in his features. All earlier traces of mockery and humour had left him now, and as Sam stole a glance towards his older brother, all he could see was a stone cold hunter, all hard sharp edges bristling with focussed energy.

His countenance and bearing were a million miles away from the grinning, mildly annoying smug-big-brother persona he'd been sporting earlier that day. Now, with a hunt imminent, Dean was all business, his movements precise and deliberate, every action economically efficient. Neither of them had exchanged many words on the drive out here, and while in that time Sam's mind had entertained a multitude of doubts about this hunt, for all outward appearances it seemed as if Dean had not even the one. As though his mind was somehow completely clear and honed to a singular purpose.

His lips were pursed, jaw set in rigid determination, and his eyes, focussed unwaveringly on the road ahead, held a dangerous, almost cold glint to them. Like a predator who had its prey in sight, and who would absolutely never stop until it won the hunt, as if nothing else existed. Not even failure.

If Sam hadn't known Dean his entire life, if he had only just met him today, then witnessing this change from cringe-worthy smug-addled fool to focussed, intimidating, flint-like hunter, would be a pretty unbelievable and a pretty terrifying thing to behold.

But as it was, knowing what he knew and knowing so little else of what they were heading in for, Dean's unwavering self-possessed confidence was a reassuring buoy, and Sam drew strength from it.

The two of them.

Good odds.

Just another hunt.

Just another monster.

Just the two of them…

"Hey Dean, wait. Maybe we should give Cas a call. Ask him to join us on this one." He didn't know why they didn't do that more often.

" _What_? _Why_? No!" Dean hissed, almost offended, his irritation palpable, and Sam winced a little.

"Look all I'm saying is we've got barely any idea what we're up against here. Besides, it can't hurt to have back up right?"

"Sam we're not calling Cas every time we go monster hunting. It's not…." He struggled to find the words, getting visibly more exasperated in the process. "It's just not practical all right! Now come on!"

"What the hell does that mean?" Sam rounded, his own irritation suddenly flaring at his brothers nonsensical logic. "How can it be impractical?"

"It just means what it means Sam! What the hell's wrong with you? It's just one monster! We're hunters, we've dealt with worse."

"But–"

"No. We don't need Cas on this. End of."

And with that Dean slammed the trunk shut and stomped towards the mill. Sam waited a few seconds, taking deep breaths to calm his own irritation at the bull headed stubbornness of his brother. He knew it had something to do with Dean's pride; not wanting to rely on anyone other than themselves, not feeling this hunt necessarily warranted lugging in a big gun in the form of an angel in tow. If he was being completely honest, Sam could understand that. If they relied on Cas for everything then there was a danger that maybe they would get complacent and lose their edge. And in the long run, he knew Dean was right; for a hunter that could end up being the ultimate downfall.

But in this instance, what would be the harm of having Cas along, just this once? Dean should have at least given Sam a chance to make his case, instead of shutting him down, and that thought irritated Sam afresh.

He took another deep breath to regain his composure and tried to stop himself from being reminded just how stubborn and close minded Dean could be, and at just how frustrating that made him to be around at times.

He could see Dean's silhouette crouched down against the barbed fence at the mills perimeter, probably already working with the bolt cutters to give them their way in. Sam took a final breath of cold night air before jogging up to join him, ignoring the deadweight in his gut that seemed to have gnarled and twisted it's way to doubling in size.

The quicker they managed to get this hunt over and done with, the better.

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 _ **A.N.**_

 _ **\- To the best of my knowledge, 'Camberville' doesn't exist. It's a fictitious place I made up, derived from the Americanisation of Camberwell, a place in the UK where I live.**_

 _ **\- Darona Khab is pronounced as Dean glibly suggests. It's a phrase from Urdu which literally means scary (Darona) dream (Khab), or in other words, 'nightmare'. There is no such demon or creature in Pakistani/Asian culture or in Islam etc. It's just the two individual words we (Urdu speakers) use to mean nightmare.**_


	2. Chapter 2: By a Moonlit Shadow

_**Chapter 2: By a Moonlit Shadow**_

"Sammy!"

The creature had been charging directly for him and his name was all he remembered hearing before something tackled him from the side and sent him crashing to the floor. At first he thought it had been the creature that had knocked him for six, but then he realised that whatever had barrelled into him had actually shunted him out of the way. There could only be one person reckless and selfless and stupid enough to jump in front of a charging monster just to save him.

Ignoring the sharp pain that shot along his spine, Sam lifted his head and looked down the length of his body just in time to see the creature lifting Dean up by the neck.

A shaft of moonlight, escaping from the cloudy sky outside, shone in through one of the broken windows overlooking the warehouse section of the mill, briefly illuminating the scene. Lying prone on the warehouse floor in the creature's moonlit shadow, Sam saw it clearly for the first time.

The vague descriptions and limited engravings they'd managed to collate hadn't prepared them for what they were facing. The creature was big, bigger than they had anticipated, and while it was fairly humanoid it wasn't sentient in any way that they could reason with. They'd known coming into this that bullets would have no lethal affect but they'd hoped nonetheless that a few rounds may slow it down at least. They'd been wrong. While Sam was sure that every shot had hit its mark, it had made no difference. There was no blood, at least none that had been visible, and any wounds the creature may have sustained were simply lost and absorbed and ignored in the contours of its flesh and bones.

It stood tall on limbs contorted like the hind legs of a cat or a dog, and was easily three or four feet taller even than Sam. The head was comparatively small, but Sam couldn't get a clear impression other than a blur of sharp looking teeth that flashed white in the moonlight. There was no fat or tufts of fur hiding its form, and its sinewy muscles and tendons were visible all over its body, the skin stretched so taught and translucent over its flesh that it glistened, looking almost as though it had been skinned. Its powerful arms, much like its legs, seemed longer than they should have been and they tapered into large claws with viciously sharp looking talons.

Claws and talons that were right at that moment, wrapped around Dean's neck.

Sam could see Dean struggling to raise his shotgun again as the creature brought him close to its face and towards those multitude of deadly teeth. For an awful moment Sam thought it was going to bite Dean's head off. But it seemed almost as if the creature were… scrutinising Dean, peering into his face for some unknown reason. But just as Sam was trying to understand what might be happening, there was a piercing bright light, and the next thing he saw was Deans limp body crumpling to the floor as the creature let him go. Sam didn't know what had happened in those few seconds but there was nothing good that could result in Dean being out for the count like that. Had the creature snapped Dean's neck? The thought made him sick. But worse, horrified and stunned by what he had just witnessed, for an instant it froze Sam in place.

The creature however was suffering from no such emotional lapse, and with Dean seemingly taken care of, its attention was now fixed firmly on Sam.

The sudden realisation that he had only a few seconds before the creature would be upon him jolted Sam back to reality. He realised that somehow his hands had pulled out the small roughly tied pouch from his pocket, and without even giving it a second thought, he threw it at the creature, shouting out the incantation and praying he had memorised it correctly.

The creature was in mid-lunge when the pouch hit it square in the chest and as soon as it did, the creature fell like a dead weight to the floor, its head almost crashing onto Sam's legs. Sam scrambled up, a second pouch again already in his hand and the incantation flowing from his lips. He threw it as he enunciated the last syllable of the spell and the creature became engulfed in a haze of murky green mist. That was it, the trapping spell, and it seemed it had worked.

At any rate, the creature seemed immobile for the time being. Sam rushed over to where Dean lay motionless and tried to lift him up to a seating position.

"Dean! Dean!" His fingers traced the line of his neck desperately searching for a pulse.

It was weak but it was there and Sam almost wept with relief, and in that same momentarily relief he felt a quick flash of anger blaze through him at the thought that his brother felt the need to sacrifice his own safety in the belief that Sam needed rescuing. That Sam couldn't handle himself.

The anger however, like the relief, was short lived, as Sam realised there was something deeply wrong with how unresponsive and limp Dean's body felt.

Carefully cradling him with one arm, he tried to hold his brother's head with his free hand, only to have it loll lifelessly from one side to the other, and all relief evaporated from him as quickly as it had settled. His panic was rising and he slapped Dean across the face.

Nothing.

"Hey! Hey, Dean come on."

He slapped him again, harder, as hard as he dared.

Nothing. Dean's head rolled to the side again and that was when Sam saw it.

Dull, blue marks, almost like bruises but glowing slightly. Identical to the other victims, except these were more pronounced and livid.

 _No, no, no! This wasn't supposed to happen. How could this happen? The creature wasn't supposed to be able to do this. How could this have happened?_

He didn't even realise he'd done it but a wordless prayer must have escaped him somehow, because there was a slight rush of air and in the next instant, Castiel was by his side.

"Sam. What's happened?" The angel had finished surveying the scene before he had even finished asking the question, and didn't need an answer. He knelt down beside Sam and touched Dean's forehead.

"He's alive, but he's out cold." Sam explained, the words tumbling out from him, not questioning how or why Cas was there, just grateful that he was. There would be nothing to worry about now that the angel would heal Dean. He tried to let that knowledge seep into him, tried to let it calm him. "And he's been infected by that thing. But I'm pretty sure that's not possible, except…" Sam trailed off, looking to the angel with a mixture of confusion and disbelief when Cas moved his hand away and Dean didn't instantly wake up.

"I know these creatures." Cas said, straightening up and moving closer to inspect the fallen monster. "They're old world beings, from the time of creation. I didn't know any of them were still here, I thought they had all been banished…. You've trapped it in a spell?"

"We needed to buy time." Sam explained impatiently. "Look Cas, just heal Dean and we'll fill you in."

"No Sam, you don't understand." He said, returning to Sam's side. "I can't. These creatures, these Darona-Khabs, their power is ancient. And it stretches across time."

Sam tried to take this in, tried to understand what it meant. "What are you saying Cas? That Dean… Dean's just gonna be in a coma like the other victims?" That would be okay, he quietly, immediately, consoled himself. It wasn't ideal, but it was okay. They could work with that. Dean had a head start over the other victim, and they had the creature trapped, so all they had to do was wait.

"There are other victims?" Cas asked, breaking Sam's reverie, but then shook his head as if to negate the question before Sam could respond. "It doesn't matter. You're right, Dean's been infected, but I suspect not like the others. Darona-Khabs don't normally physically infect their prey. The only way to heal someone who's been infected as severely as Dean is to intervene when they were first infected."

"When they were… You mean Dean was attacked before today? ... OK…. Okay so you can travel back in time, go back and do that. Intervene."

"I can't."

"Why not!?"

"Because I'm the only thing keeping Dean alive right now."

Sam blinked, the words taking a minute to seep in. "What?"

"Darona-Khabs attack their victims twice. Once when the victim is young, then again when they're adults. But in any normal case, a victim is ordinarily only attacked in his or her sleep. Dean on the other hand has been attacked physically, in the real world. That's made the attack more powerful, more potent. Even though you've trapped the Darona-Khab, Dean's infection is still severe. I can't repair him, I can only keep him alive, slow the rate of demise. If I leave now and travel back in time, even for a split second, Dean will die."

Sam's mind raced, taking in what the angel was telling him and trying to formulate it into something he could process.

"Okay. OK. So you keep Dean safe here, and send me back instead to whenever it was he was first attacked." His mind flashed the entry from their father's journal. Too much of a coincidence. "I can tell you the rough time and exact place. I'll kill it before it can ever get to Dean."

But Cas was already shaking his head. "It takes too much energy to send someone back through time. If I sent you, I'd risk losing my hold on Dean. Besides, the fact that Dean is here, like this, means that nothing ever stopped him being attacked in the first place."

"So… what are you telling me Cas? What do we do?"

Cas knelt down, brow knitted in thought and placed his hand on Deans forehead again. He was quiet for a long time, as though thinking something through, and Sam, despite his desire to grab the angel by the collar and shake an answer from him, waited.

"Is Dean the latest victim?" Cas asked, staring at the prone form of the creature, then turning his attention back to Dean. Sam nodded.

"There might be one thing we could try," The angel said finally, "But I don't know if it would work."

"What?"

"These creatures exist outside of conventional constraints in time as you humans might understand them. They only start feeding once they've attached to a victim at _both_ ends of what you could think of as a temporal loop or cycle. A beginning and an end. Right now, it's tied to Dean. This is the latest loop and both Dean and the creature are in it. But because of the spell you've bound the creature in, it can't escape. It will stay trapped in this loop, until either the spell wears off or… until Dean dies."

"Neither of those are good options Cas." Sam interjected barely able to contain his impatience, only to be met with the angel's annoyance.

"What I'm saying is, we might be able to use this to our advantage. We know which loop it's trapped in right now. This is a good thing. I can begin the ritual to break the cycle, to break its hold on Dean, but it would only be at this end of the loop. In order for it to work, it would need to be broken at both ends of the _same_ loop."

"You mean at the time when Dean was first infected. But you said you can't send me back."

"I can't, I mean not physically… But I could perhaps send your consciousness back. It would mean your body would remain here, but you would be projected back in time. I have no idea if it would even work–"

"OK let's do it. What do you need me to do when I get there?"

"Sam you don't understand. You would only be _projected_ into the past. You, this version of you, wouldn't physically be there. I don't even know if there's anything you _could_ do except be an observer. Your younger self may be able to sense or perceive you but… I just don't know. You'd have to figure out a way to intervene, somehow, to save Dean, without actually being able to physically do anything."

"Well what else is there Cas? Unless we wait two months for some sacrificial goat's blood…"

"Dean doesn't have that long." Cas said quietly, not able to keep a pained expression from marring his features as he looked at the limp form of his friend in the younger brother's arms. "I've slowed down what's happening to him, but not for that long."

Sam swallowed down on the lump that had formed in his throat.

"Okay then send me back. I'll figure it out."

"Are you sure about this?" Cas asked, looking doubtful.

"We don't have any other options do we?"

Cas shook his head, sadness clouding his features again briefly, before his face took on a more resolute expression.

"All right", He acquiesced. "But there's a few things you need to know. These creatures feed in order to maintain a non-corporeal form. When their energy runs out they're forced to manifest physically. They need to feed again in order to recharge their energy and reassume their non-corporeal existence. That's usually at the end of a cycle, like here, which is why it's a physical being that you and Dean managed to trap. What I mean is, the chances are it won't exist as a physical creature for you to hunt when you go back, at the start of the feeding cycle. Whenever Dean was infected, it was in his dreams, his nightmares, not in the real or physical world. That means you'll have to find a way to make Dean confront the Darona-Khab in his dreams, and bind it there. You won't be able to do it for him, because it won't physically exist. Dean is the only one who can do it, because Dean is the only one who would actually be there and the only place it will be lurking at that time, is in Dean's mind, in his dreams."

"Cas… Damn it Cas, if I'm right about when Dean got infected, then he was just a kid. Not even 10 years old. How am I supposed to get him to fight a monster in his dreams?"

Cas shook his head. "I don't know Sam. I'm sorry. It's all I can think of."

Sam bit down his anger, instantly regretting his tone. If it wasn't for Cas there would be no hope. "I'm sorry Cas." Sam remedied. "None of this is your fault. Here," He said shifting Dean's weight. "Take him. I'll figure out a way. Just keep him alive."

"I've never separated a human's consciousness like this before Sam, let alone sent it across time." The angel admitted, looking doubtful and almost fearful as he repositioned himself to take over responsibility for Dean. "It's different to when you dream, or when we angels make you dream. I have no idea what you can expect or what, if anything, you'll be able to do. Human consciousness is… complex. It's more than just brainwaves. It's entwined with your souls. Your emotions. And it's tethered to a body, to a physical thing. Being untethered like this… I'm not sure what effect it will have. It may make your emotions, your latent anxieties, more apparent. Perhaps even magnify them to an extent."

"All right." Sam said, not sure what to do with that information, his attention focussed more on ensuring Dean's head was cradled and safe, before he nodded at the angel.

"What I'm doing," Cas continued, "is detaching you, separating you from your body, from the thing that contains and anchors you. But that's all I'm doing Sam. It might be all I can do. I can't direct you, I'm just a springboard, I'll propel you, but you're the one who'll need to take control somehow. You'll just be adrift unless you can find a way to navigate and get to Dean yourself. And even then, as I said, I just don't know if anyone would even perceive you. Unless someone is gifted or is deeply attached to a particular soul, an arbitrary untethered consciousness' outside of their own is difficult for humans to detect. Sam, I–"

"It's okay Cas. I'll figure it out." Sam cut him off, understanding the angels concern and trying to reassure him. "Just tell me what I need to do." And then he corrected himself. "What I need to get Dean to do."

The angel regarded him briefly before nodding. "All right. The ritual is an Enochian spell. Dean will need to repeat it when he confronts the creature in his dream. He'll need to be close enough for the Darona-Khab to hear him. I don't know how it will manifest for Dean, what it will look like; it could be in its actual form or it might take the guise of someone or something else. All I can tell you is that it _will_ be in a nightmare, it can't exist in a normal dream. And it will use Dean's fears, Dean's nightmare's, against him."

Sam nodded, trying to take it all in. Despite the angel's apologies this was more information than Sam or Dean's own research had been able to supply, so he was grateful for it. Castiel continued, his voice as always managing to sound patient and urgent all at once.

"I'll embed the spell in your mind so that you know it. Humans usually wake up, or get woken up from nightmares, so it can take several dreams before the creatures fully latches on. That means Dean will have more than one chance to bind it. But once a Darona-Khab has latched onto him fully, then it won't appear again and there will be nothing we can do."

"Don't worry." Sam tried to reassure him. "I'll make sure we get it."

Cas nodded, apparently satisfied. "Lie down, close your eyes." he instructed. "Are you ready? Do you know when you need to go to?" Sam nodded, closing his eyes. "Focus on that date. Focus on finding Dean at that date. Take control and find your way. Focus yourself completely to that… Focus on the date… Focus on Dean… Focus."

For the briefest instant, Sam felt Cas' light touch on his forehead and a searing bright light seemed to engulf him, but before he could register anything more, everything went dark.


	3. Chapter 3: Meet the Winchesters

_**Chapter 3: Meet the Winchesters**_

Sam couldn't quantify how long the darkness lasted. It could have been seconds, it could have been years. He simply didn't know. In fact, he felt he didn't know anything at all. And even the concept of darkness, or light, of seconds and years, of knowing, not knowing, being, not being, none of it meant a thing up until then. Up until the instant there was a sudden spark and then, now, suddenly he was aware.

This sudden knowledge of awareness, awareness of self, whatever 'self' even was, only heightened the sense of numb oblivion that had preceded it and that still surrounded him. There had been nothing, _he_ had been nothing within that nothing. And now, suddenly, somehow, _he_ was.

But what did that even mean? _He_ was. He was… what?

As quickly as the question, or feeling had formed, an answer was there, like a bolt of lightning across a dark endless sky.

Sam.

He was Sam. At least he felt a sense of ownership of that knowledge.

That knowledge began to grow more cohesively into a sense of being, and the more he thought about that, the more that feeling seemed to take shape as if it were actually filling the darkness around him and forming him into himself.

Creating something from nothing.

He was Sam. Sam Winchester.

And then he felt something else. No, not felt, knew. He knew there was something wrong. There was something missing. Some _one_ missing. He was incomplete.

But all of this, all these concepts of being and of space and direction and physical measures, they were all flooding into him, one on top of the other and he felt himself becoming lost, floundering and panicking and losing himself to the dark vacuum of nothing that spanned endlessly all around him.

Then, from a place he couldn't identify, he heard a sound that he somehow recognised. It was like an echo reverberating across the darkness, the origin of which he couldn't name but that felt familiar and virginal all at once. He didn't know how he knew, but he understood that it was trying to guide him. Was telling him to focus.

Telling him to find Dean.

Dean.

That single word smashed into him, lodging itself inside him and weighing him down like an anchor, steadying him. Something solid and real. In the frantic darkness of nothingness that was threatening to engulf him, that one word shone out like a beacon, calming and dependable and familiar all at once. Instinctively he knew this was something that he trusted. Something that he knew was safe. Something that would always save him.

He allowed himself to draw strength from that, focusing on it completely, clinging to it.

Dean.

Dean.

Then, slowly, he felt an urge, an instinct creep into him, magnifying until it overwhelmed him. There was something wrong. Very, very wrong. There was something urgent and crucial that he needed to do.

Something to do with Dean. Something to save Dean.

And with that, suddenly, he remembered. With an overriding sense of panic, knowledge of everything that he had forgotten poured into him all at once. He knew exactly who he was, and exactly what he had to do and exactly where, _when_ , he had to aim for. And like everything else that seemed to have happened, the moment, the _instant_ , he understood this, it formed into existence around him and he was transported back into the world.

He was standing in a motel kitchen. Not one he could readily identify, but then there had been so many in his life.

He looked around hoping to find some clue that might jog his memory of this place, but nothing came to view. Why was he not surprised by that? There would be no photos on the fridge, fastened by magnetic souvenirs bought on family vacations. No picture frames of smiling faces hanging on the wall. No personalised mugs drying on the draining board. Not even any plants or scraps of familiar clutter or rubbish. Nothing.

They'd never had a proper home since their first one had burnt down and unlike Dean, Sam had no childhood memory of that one either. Then after that, after their mother's death, it had just been endless places like these. Nondescript, impersonal spaces that had never really belonged to them and that they never stayed in long enough to personalise.

Before he could dwell on this any longer however, a young boy walked into the kitchen, dragging a duffle and two grocery bags along behind him. He heaved them one by one up onto the small metallic kitchen table. Unzipping the duffle bag first, he began pulling out plates, cups, saucepans and a stash of mismatched cutlery, stowing them away quickly, adeptly into the various cupboards and drawers. Next, he turned his attention to the grocery bags which held a variety of items. A few tins of soups and beans, some frozen food packets, a box or two of cereals, some macaroni cheese, soda, milk, juice, bread, some eggs, a small bunch of bananas and a few small oranges.

And salt. Lots and lots of salt.

All of these he began to unpack stow away with the same deft, practiced ease that he'd displayed with the other items.

Sam was watching in silence, fascinated. At some point it had dawned on him that this was _Dean_ , and from that moment he was completely engrossed. He couldn't remember Dean ever looking so young, so _small_. But that made him realise he wasn't exactly sure how old the Dean he was observing actually was.

He tried to gage an age from Dean's appearance, from his build and height and features, but it was difficult to tell.

 _You're not wearing your amulet_ , Sam observed suddenly. _I probably haven't given it to you yet_ , he surmised, _so you're younger than 12._

Good. That was a good start. But it wasn't good enough. He needed specifics. He needed to make sure he was in the exact right place at the exact right time.

Just then, a receipt that had been wedged between some macaroni and juice in one of the bags that Dean was emptying, fell as he pulled out the last of the items and floated listlessly to the floor. Sam instinctively tried reaching for it before being reminded that he wasn't physically there. As luck would have it though it landed face up, and after a bit of scrutiny Sam was able to make out what he needed from the faint script.

 _*Seven Lakes Discount Groceries, Camberville. Sunday June 26, 1988.*_

Sam heaved a sigh of relief. This was exactly where he had hoped to be, and at exactly the right time. According to the journal entry they would have just arrived, and having seen Dean unpack it seemed that was right.

The date also meant that Dean was 9, making him, Sam, 5. No wonder he couldn't remember this place, or remember seeing his brother looking so young.

Sam was still mesmerised by Dean, when he heard noises from the other room.

"Have you finished unpacking everything away Dean?"

Their father.

Sam should have expected this, should have been prepared for it, but it took him off guard and for a moment his emotions got the better of him. He hadn't heard that voice for, God, he couldn't remember how long it had been now. He felt winded, as though all the air had rushed out from him. Somewhere it briefly occurred to Sam that he wasn't actually breathing, that he didn't actually have any lungs or a body for that matter. But his non-existent mouth felt all too really dry none the less.

"Yeah Dad." Dean answered, oblivious to the silent, invisible voyeur who had been watching him so intently.

"Good. Come help me with the rest of the bags son."

Dean trudged back out of the kitchen, and after a hesitant split second, Sam followed suit.

There, in the doorway of the motel room, stood their father, John Winchester.

Sam had to take a moment to take him in. And then another to fight the urge to rush up to him and hug him.

He was younger than Sam remembered ever seeing him, but he looked just as tired as ever. His hands were laden; he had bags from some unintelligible fast-food chain in one hand, a rucksack slung over one shoulder and a young child sleeping against the other.

 _Me_ , Sam realised with a start, taken aback. _That's me._

Dean had already grabbed two of the bags near their father's feet, and was dragging them towards the wardrobe, while their father headed towards the beds. He deposited the food bags on the bed nearest the door, while laying the sleeping child, me Sam had to remind himself again, carefully onto the other.

His father stood for a moment, looking down at him, hand still resting on the sleeping child's head, and a ghost of an expression that Sam could honestly say he never remembered ever seeing on him, crossed his dad's face just then. There was a deep sadness in it, as if he were remembering something, or someone, whom he couldn't forget but whom he longed to see again. But there was also such intense protectiveness and such fierce love in that expression, that it made Sam's heart ache. Then, before Sam had even fully taken all this in, his father bent down and kissed him on his head. His lips lingered for a fraction of a second before he straightened up and the expression was gone. He turned to Dean.

"Do you need any help with that son?" He asked.

Dean, who had by now pulled the last bag towards him and had been putting things away in the wardrobe, half turned to face him, shrugging.

"No Dad. It's almost done."

"Good." John nodded, his approval apparent but brief. He sat down on the bed, hefting his shoulder bag onto the floor and sighed, rubbing his hands over his face and closing his eyes.

Sam wondered how long they had been driving this time. Their father looked tired, but then he always looked tired. It was still light out though, and Sam guessed it was early or mid-afternoon. Driving all night and then all morning perhaps? That meant that there would still be a few hours till nightfall, and a few hours till Dean would fall asleep.

Good, Sam thought. Not that he had any idea what he was going to do, or how he would get it done. But still, it bought him some time.

Now if only he knew what the hell to do.

As if in response to his anguish, John sighed again.

Sam wanted more than anything to be able to talk to his father right then. John would've known what to do, but more than that, Sam just wished he could talk to him, wished he could tell him all the things that he regretted never having been able to say before. Wished he could take back all the things he regretted having said before. But he didn't even know where, how, to begin.

Lost in his own reverie, Sam hadn't noticed that Dean had at some point gone into the kitchen, but he reappeared now with a plate. He carefully unwrapped the food and, placing it on the plate, held it out to his father along with a drink.

"You should eat something Dad. You look tired. You drove for a really long time."

John opened his eyes and smiled briefly at his eldest son, taking the proffered offerings. As he began eating, Sam, the young Sam, stirred on the bed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Hey Sammy." Dean said, sitting down beside him and gently placing a hand on his back. "Are you hungry? Do you want some fries?"

But Sammy just shook his head, still rubbing his eyes, and fell back onto the bed, asleep once more.

"Let him sleep." John said. "It's only been a little while. Give him something later, just make sure it's something healthy."

That struck Sam as quite ironic given what the two older Winchesters were feasting on themselves, and a small incredulous snort escaped him. But Dean simply nodded, finally unwrapping his own meal and settling down to eat.

Watching them, Sam bit down on the wellspring of emotions that he felt rising up in him. This was his family, the only one he remembered, all together. It had been a long time since they had all been under the same roof. And while of course he didn't remember this exact occurrence, didn't remember things from this age this clearly, he remembered enough of similar things to miss it keenly.

The three of them, sitting in motel rooms after driving for hours and hours on end, exhausted and starving and eating tasteless junk food. As awful as it had been at the time, Sam wished more than anything he could be part of it again now, just once more, even just briefly. Wished he could actually talk to his father, could enjoy a bad cheap burger with him.

And Dean. It had never occurred to Sam because it had always just been the way it was, but watching it as an observer now, it occurred to him that Dean had always been the one who took care of them when they got to wherever they were going. He must have been as tired as they all were, but Dean was always the one who made sure they ate something. That their father ate something. That their meagre belongings were put away. That they were, for what it was worth, settled in and 'at home', as much as they could be.

He watched the two of them eat in silence, and it dawned on him that Dean wasn't at ease. He wondered what was on his mind, whether he had already begun having nightmares, and was pondering this when Dean spoke up.

"Are… uhm… will you be staying the night Dad?" Dean didn't make eye contact with his father, seemed overly engrossed in his food, but Sam could tell he was only doing this to hide his features. To hide any emotions that may betray him. Pretending to be nonchalant when in reality he obviously cared a great deal. He hadn't been able to keep a hopeful note from creeping into his voice though, and he looked as though he were holding his breath in anticipation while he waited for their fathers reply.

"It'll be just you and Sammy for a while Dean. You know that." That was all their father responded with flatly.

"But Dad, maybe you could just–"

"We've been over this Dean." Their father cut him off, in a tone that wasn't exactly harsh, but just weary and resolute enough to negate further discussion. "You're old enough to not need me around all the time anymore. And I need you to take care of Sam so I can get our work done."

"Yes sir." Dean replied, seeming to accept this, but Sam saw his shoulders droop, clearly disappointed. If their father had noticed however, he made no move to comfort him. The next few moment passed in silence until Dean spoke up again.

"Are you hunting something bad this time?"

"It's always something bad son. And you know better than to talk about this in front of your brother."

"He's asleep, Dad. He can't hear… So… What is it? Is it a ghost? Or a werewolf, like that time in Albany?"

John sighed, "Do you think it could be a werewolf Dean?" He pinned his gaze on him and Dean squirmed, clearly unhappy. He finally shook his head, looking away.

"No sir."

"Why not?" Their father persisted.

"Because it's not a full moon." Dean answered, his voice flat and unemotional. "Because the killings that you read about in the paper didn't happen on a full moon."

"That's right. You have to use your head Dean. Mistakes cost lives. You need to be smarter than that. Think things through before you speak."

Dean nodded sullenly, clearly disappointed at himself and dejected by his father's reprimand.

For all the warmth with which he had welcomed this glimpse of their previous life, a rush of protectiveness for his older brother washed over Sam, and he felt suddenly angry. This was a nine year old boy. _Nine years old!_ He shouldn't be talking about murders over burgers. He shouldn't even _know_ about ghosts and werewolves, let alone be chastised for overlooking the current lunar cycle. In stark contrast to the affection he had felt towards the man just moments earlier, the anger made Sam want to shout out at his father, to tell him that Dean was just a child and that this, all of this that John had done to him, was unfair. But all he could do was just stand there in silence and watch Dean chew his food, his young chin pressed down against his chest and his small hand balled up into a tight angry fist by his side.

With his meal finished, John reached into the rucksack and pulled out a money clip and a gun. He stood, hefting the bag back onto his shoulder and, after placing the money next to the room keys on the nightstand, began making his way to the door. Dean quickly put his own food to one side and followed him. At the door, John finally stopped and turned to face him. Sam should have been horrified when John handed Dean the loaded gun. Any normal, rational person would have been. But why should Sam be surprised? This was their family after all, and growing up he couldn't remember Dean ever not having a gun.

Still, seeing it now through his adult eyes, Sam could see how starkly unfair and irresponsible that was. How shockingly wrong and messed up it would so obviously seem to anyone else.

The gun looked too big and seemed too heavy for Dean's young hands. He noticed however, with a twinge of sadness and, absurdly, a small measure of pride too, that even at that young age, Dean already handled the weapon like a pro.

"Now remember Dean, don't open the door for anyone and don't answer the phone. If it's me, I'll let it ring twice, then hang up, then call again."

"I know Dad."

"And remember–"

"To lay salt down on the doors and windows after you leave, I know. And to look after Sammy and make sure he's safe. And if anything comes into the room, to shoot first and ask questions later. I know Dad. Don't worry, we'll be okay."

John regarded his son, who was still hefting the gun and refusing to make eye contact. He knelt down in front of him, trying to catch his gaze.

"Dean? You know how important this is, right?" Dean nodded. "I need to know I can trust you with this. You can't be all cocky about it. That's when people get hurt." He glanced over briefly to where Sammy was still sleeping soundly. "Now I know you remember everything I've told you, but you have to make sure if anything bad happens, you do everything right. No mistakes. Do you hear me Dean? I need you to be strong. I need you to be smart." Dean nodded, still not fully meeting his father's eyes and clearly this wasn't good enough for John. "Dean?!" He repeated, more forcefully this time.

Dean shifted on his feet, biting his lip, clearly feeling guilty.

Or perhaps just deliberately stalling for time, Sam realised suddenly, recognising the twitch in Dean's lip that was still his tell whenever he was caught out. He was delaying so as to keep their father with him a little while longer. That thought made Sam feel immeasurably sad for his brother.

Dean seemed to come to terms with something then however, and Sam could visibly see him stand a little taller, his shoulders straightening and his whole posture seeming to steel itself and toughen up. Like a soldier, Sam thought.

Like a hunter, he corrected sadly.

Dean lifted his head finally to meet their father's gaze and Sam was shocked by just how grown up and serious his young eyes truly looked. "You can trust me Dad." He promised, quietly, in almost a whisper. "I won't let anything happen to Sammy."

John appraised him for a moment, searching his eyes, but this time Dean met the scrutiny head on, not looking away or even barely blinking. A few seconds passed but then John seemed convinced. "I know you won't Dean." He allowed finally. His features softened a little then and he reached out to his eldest. "Come here."

Dean hesitated a second, before stepping forward and wrapping his arms around their father.

"Be careful daddy." Dean whispered. Sam had never heard Dean call their father that before and it suddenly made Dean seem so much younger again, so much more vulnerable and childlike.

John hugged him a little tighter. "Don't worry Dean." He reassured. "I'll be back before you know it."

Then he let him go, stood up, stepped back. He stole a final glance at Sammy. "Take care of your little brother Dean." He reminded.

Dean nodded, but John, looking down at him, lingered, and that struck Sam as odd because their father never lingered, not that Sam could ever remember, he just left. And at that thought a voice in his head scoffed at him; _must be where you get it from Sammy_ , and he didn't know if it had been his own voice, or John's, or Dean's, but it hurt all the same.

And before Sam could even react to the voice in his head, John, true to form, was gone.

Sam guessed that Dean must have stood in the doorway for at least a full two minutes, till long after the Impala had rumbled out of sight, before he finally closed the door. He walked over to where Sammy was sleeping, checking something, before gently pulling the covers up and tucking him in.

Then he moved onto the spare bed, gun resting in his lap, and just sat there.

For a moment, Sam didn't realise what Dean was doing, until Dean sniffed quietly and Sam saw a tear streak down his face.

At that moment, for all it mattered, Dean was completely and utterly alone in the world. An abandoned nine year old child, with a gun in his hand, sitting in a cold and nameless motel room, crying quietly so as to not wake his baby brother.

And for all that Sam wanted to rush up to him, to tell him it was all right, to hug him and tell him he wasn't alone, for all that it mattered that he, Sam, was right there in the bed next to him, sleeping obliviously through it all, there was nothing he could do but just stand there and watch Dean deal with it all on his own.


	4. Chapter 4: Food Lego and Dungarees

_**Chapter 4: Food Lego and Dungarees**_

Sammy woke up about an hour later, by which time Dean had not only regained his composure, but had stowed away the money and gun, as well as the rest of their scanty belongings, and had lined the door and all the windows with salt. Through all of this Sam had tried everything he could think of to get Deans attention, but nothing had worked. His throat, he was pretty sure if he'd had one, would have been raw with all the shouting he'd done, and if he'd flapped his arms any harder he probably would have mastered the art of flight.

Sam had even tried to connect with his younger self somehow. That would make sense, at least as much sense as anything else. But he just didn't know how. All he'd managed to do was peer at his younger sleeping self in the face, till he began to feel ridiculous and a little uncomfortable. It was a surreal sensation really, staring at your younger self. Seriously, who ever got to do that?

Towards the end he had gotten so frustrated that he'd tried smashing things and breaking windows. But he wasn't a ghost. And besides, it was probably a small blessing that _that_ tactic hadn't worked. He imagined if it had, it would have freaked the nine year old Dean out.

Probably.

So he was clean out of ideas. For the time being at least, he couldn't think of anything else to do, so he returned his attention to Dean.

He was slouched on the grubby motel room sofa, a cartoon playing on the TV with the volume turned down so low it was barely audible, and at first Sam didn't know why Dean would do that. Was the TV broken? Or perhaps Dean was afraid of disturbing their motel room neighbours? But then it dawned on him; _it's low so as not to disturb me, the young me, while I sleep_.

He couldn't remember himself ever being that considerate towards Dean when they were younger. If anything, he realised with a sudden flush of shame, he'd sometimes gone out of his way to be loud and disruptive, just to get Dean's attention.

Before he could linger on this, Sammy padded in to join his older brother, still rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Daddy's gone?" he asked at the tail end of a yawn.

Dean sat up. "Hey Sammy." He greeted brightly, all signs of emotional turmoil now either gone or else, deftly hidden. "Are you hungry?"

Dean was avoiding answering Sammy's question, Sam realised. He couldn't blame him. But Sammy wasn't that easily dissuaded. He stood at the foot of the sofa, head cocked to one side and eyes a bit more alert as they focussed on Dean.

"Is Daddy gone?" he asked again.

Dean sighed, standing up and walking over to crouch down in front of him. "Yeah. Dad's gone." At this Sammy began to pout. "Hey come on now. You know Dad has to go to work. He'll be back soon."

How many times growing up had Sam heard Dean convince him of that? Too many times already apparently, because Sammy didn't seem convinced either and his eyes began to well up.

 _Oh God_ , Sam thought. _Don't throw a tantrum Sammy, don't be a jerk_. That really wasn't something Dean deserved.

But Dean didn't appear alarmed at all, seeming to take Sammy's mood in his stride. Instead of confronting any impending outburst, he simply took Sammy's hand and started walking him back to towards the bedroom.

"Do you need to use the bathroom?" The question caught both Sam's off guard. Sammy resolutely shook his head as Dean led him back, but Dean persisted. "Are you _sure_? Do you remember what happened the last time you didn't go after we had a long drive?"

Both Sam's squirmed uncomfortably at this, Sammy clearly remembering something that Sam was glad _he_ didn't.

"Tell you what Sammy." Dean offered now that they were at the bathroom door. "If you go in and clean up, I'll get you some food and you can eat in front of the TV. What do you think?"

Sammy considered this, the tantrum and angst forgotten as he mulled over the new proposition.

"Thundercats is on." Dean offered, dangling this last bit of information as icing on the baited cake and it worked. Sammy nodded, grinning.

"Okay good," Dean said pleased, unbuttoning Sammy's dungarees and helping him to step out of them. "You can go by yourself can't you Sammy?"

To Sam's immense relief, Sammy could.

For some absurd reason that Sam couldn't justify, he simply didn't feel comfortable following himself into the bathroom, even though that would probably be the least intrusive thing he would've done so far. Being invisibly present in the room for the past two hours or so, he was aware at how much of an intrusion of privacy his presence probably was, on everyone except his younger self. He had already seen a lot more than he'd bargained on, private moments that probably neither John nor Dean had meant to ever share with any one.

But he just couldn't bring himself to watch himself pee or, God! Worse; poop.

So instead he followed Dean back into the kitchen.

He watched from a corner as Dean retrieved two brightly coloured, child sized plastic bowls from the cupboard. He then peeled a banana, carefully cutting it into chunks and dropping them into one of the bowls, before opening a cereal box and pouring some chocolate coloured hoops into the other bowl. He then carried both bowls out to the sofa and placed them on the low coffee table, returning a moment later with a beaker of milk.

"Sammy? Y'okay?" He called out, making his way back to the bedroom and getting there just as the younger Winchester was pulling up the legs of his dungarees, face screwed up in concentration as he struggled with the buttons. Sam expected Dean to step in and take care of it, but to his surprise Dean held back, leaning against the dresser, a small smile playing on his lips.

Sammy struggled for a few more seconds, before pulling a face and giving up.

"I can't do it Dean." He huffed. "You fix it."

"Nuh-uh." Dean shook his head. "Keep trying."

"I can't Dee!" Sammy protested, in what was almost a whine.

"Yeah you can. Come on, try."

Sammy huffed again but obliged, pulling the brace clip on the shoulder strap down towards the big silver button on the chest panel. His slightly pudgy fingers weren't quite dexterous enough to work the button into the clip though and he looked back up again at Dean pleadingly. But Dean only bobbed his head in encouragement.

"You're doing great Sammy. Look, you're almost done."

As if Dean's saying this would have somehow changed something, Sammy looked back down at his hands. He tugged at the strap and manoeuvred the button between his fingers, face full of concentration.

"That's it." Dean cajoled, "You can do it Sammy." And as if these words of encouragement from Dean were all that had been needed, the button magically slot into place. Sammy blinked, for a moment not believing that he had actually managed to do it.

He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide in awe, as if he had just witnessed the world's best magic trick and needed to check with Dean to make sure it had actually been real. "I did it Dee! Look!"

"Yeah you did." Dean was laughing, presumably at Sammy's shocked reaction and disbelief, but Sam also caught an undercurrent of proud approval lurking beneath Dean's amused features. Sammy didn't read it of course, mouth wordlessly forming a _'wow'_ and still looking at the clip and button with an expression of such genuine amazement that even Sam couldn't help smiling. "Come on." Dean said, moving away from the dresser and crouching down in front of Sammy. "I'll do the other and then you can eat."

"I did it Dee. Did you see it? I did it!"

"I know you did. I told you you could." He quickly did up the other strap for him and then cocked his head to one side, regarding his little brother. "You're so smart Sammy, I bet you could do anything you wanted."

Sam felt a strange sense of pride bubble up and swell within him at hearing Dean, even a young Dean, say that about him. Almost his entire life, he realised, Dean had always quietly nudged him on. Had always been the voice that was urging him to keep up, to try that little bit harder, push that little bit further. To not give up. To not give in.

When John started including Sam in the training regimes, it had been a shock for Sam to see that side of his father. Up until then, Sam had to admit their father had been tender and paternal towards him, whenever he was actually around to be there. When the training started however, things had begun to change.

John treated his sons like marines, bellowing demands and highlighting failings, never bestowing praise, at least not that Sam ever remembered. There had been times when Sam would be close to tears, frustrated at his inability to do what was being demanded of him. But in that instant, just like that, there would be Dean, his voice in Sam's ear, gently encouraging, quietly supporting, sometimes teasing, sometimes challenging, but never judging, never bullying. Always just somehow making it easier. Reminding him without ever really saying it that he was never alone, that it would be all right.

Sam had spent a large part of his childhood thinking Dean had been someone he wanted to live up to, that Dean was measuring Sammy up to himself. But watching Dean just then as he straightened up Sammy's dungarees, Sam suddenly realised he'd been wrong. It wasn't Dean at all that Dean had been using as a yardstick for Sammy; it had been Sammy. It was never Dean's standards that Dean had been urging Sammy to live up to; it had been his, Sammy's own potential that Dean had been pushing him to achieve.

"Anything at all." Dean repeated, given the strap a final adjustment.

" _Anything?_ " Sammy asked, a small mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Yep."

"Even fly?" Sammy giggled, although he seemed to wait for Dean's answer.

"Sure." Dean said, straightening up and leading them back to the sofa. "Why not?"

"Like Superman!"

" _I'm_ Superman, did you forget? You can be Batman."

 _I knew it!_ Sam thought. _I_ _ **knew**_ _it._

He'd always secretly suspected that Dean had been somehow responsible for making him think that Batman could fly. They both remembered how _that_ had ended, and come to think of it, that incident would probably happen soon. Strange how he remembered that, but none of this. But he supposed breaking his arm had probably made more of a lasting impression on him than being able to do up his dungarees.

Sammy though was still grinning and marvelling at his recent accomplishment, but then he stopped abruptly when he saw what was on the coffee table, his mood changing again.

"I don't want that." He said. "I want a burger."

"The burgers are cold and nasty." Dean protested. "Besides, you gotta eat some fruit Sam. It's good for you."

Sammy pulled a face. "I don't like fwoot." Sam was appalled.

"Don't you wanna be big and strong? Like Batman? Like Dad?"

For a moment, Sammy didn't reply. But then finally he nodded.

"Well then." Dean reasoned, as if this settled everything. "You have to eat your fruit. It's healthy. And look." He knelt down on the floor in front of the coffee table and grabbed a piece of banana. "You can stick the chocolate bits into the banana pieces. See?" He pushed one of the tiny cereal pieces into the fruit segment, holding it out for Sammy to see as though it were some wonderfully constructed toy. Sammy cautiously edged closer, not quite convinced but intrigued, unable to hide his curiosity.

"It's like….." Dean continued, searching for the right words. "Like food Lego! See?" He stuck another piece in. Sammy had been edging closer to his older brother and was now practically hovering over his shoulder, watching Dean intently as he stuck more and more pieces of cereal into the fruit. After another moment or two, Sammy's curiosity got the better of him.

"I wanna try."

"Get your own piece." Dean said, his own now almost completely covered in cereal pieces. He took a bite, crunching it loudly.

"Does it taste good?" Sammy asked, eyes wide again, watching his brother with awe, looking expectant and worried all at once.

"Mmmm." Dean said, in feigned and exaggerated contentment. "That tastes really, _really_ good." He grinned widely, popping the rest of his piece in his mouth. But then his face took on a solemn, grave expression, and he sighed, almost sadly, shaking his head. "But if you don't want any…"

"No! I want some too!" And with that Sammy sat down next to Dean, picking up a piece of fruit and pushing little hoops of cereal into it, mimicking what he'd seen his older brother do.

Dean grinned to himself and turned the TV volume up. Not that Sammy noticed, engrossed as he was now in making and eating the food Lego.

Sam was dumbfounded.

The revelation that _he_ , Sammy, didn't like fruit, was news to him. He'd just assumed he'd always liked to eat healthily. He certainly couldn't remember ever turning his nose up at fruit or refusing to eat it. But clearly he had. He'd witnessed himself do just that, just now.

Sam had always assumed that he, himself, had been responsible for his taste in food that was healthier than what his brother consumed. He could never have imagined that Dean would ever be the one who would be responsible, in part at least, for convincing and urging him to eat better. Dean had swayed Sammy with such practiced ease however, that Sam knew instantly this hadn't been the first time he had done this, or some variation of it.

And as if that scene had stirred a memory in him, Sam remembered there had been numerous subtle ways in which Dean had coerced him throughout their childhood. If it hadn't been for Dean…

That shouldn't have surprised Sam, and it didn't, not really. But it made him deeply sad and deeply ashamed of himself.

As an adult, he realised he viewed his brothers eating habits with disdain. No, it was more than that. He actually looked down on his brother, judged him even, for his preference for cheap, fast food junk. As if it made him somehow primitive and less cultured, less civilised, than he was. It had never, ever, occurred to Sam that perhaps the only reason he had a palate for healthier food was because Dean had tried to make sure he ate well. Growing up, Dean had taken more care about Sammy's diet than he had his own, that much was evident, resulting in Sam developing a taste for healthy eating. Perhaps Dean's care had waned at times, but he had always tried.

But as an adult, rather than appreciate or acknowledge this, Sam had simply harboured a quiet sense superiority over his brother.

In everything Dean had done so far, everything that Sam had witnessed, he had put Sammy and his needs first, handling him with such self-assured ease it was as though he were his parent.

 _You practically were_ , Sam realised.

Even earlier, Dean had managed to control and defuse Sammy's imminent tantrum incredibly well, better than many grown-ups would have done.

As an adult, Sam sometimes caught himself feeling manipulated by his older brother. It wouldn't be anything malicious, just subtle little things. The way Dean could make Sam squirm with a look, or the way during a hunt, Dean naturally assumed point and Sam would habitually fall back without even realising or debating, would even look to Dean for direction at times as though Dean were his commanding officer.

But on occasions, when Sam would realise how he had been influenced and swayed, he would get frustrated and annoyed at himself for being so pliable. He would also feel a little ashamed at having been played, yet again, by his brother so easily.

But having seen the past few exchanges, the calm easy way with which Dean had gently diverted Sammy away from crying, or had convinced him to eat his fruit, it suddenly made perfect sense to Sam why Dean always managed to manoeuvre him so effortlessly. It wasn't a failing or weakness on Sam's part, it was a skill and expertise in Dean, honed over a lifetime. He was well practiced; after all, he'd had been doing it almost his entire life. Dean probably knew how to handle Sam better than Sam probably knew how to handle himself.

For all the anger that had slowly built up in Sam over the years as he'd been growing up, all the resentment towards their father at the way he'd forced them to live, Sam suddenly realised that he had never really been alone. Not like Dean. Sam may have thought he'd had it rough, he may have thought he felt lonely and that he didn't fit in, but Dean had always been there, looking out for him. Just an hour or so earlier, Dean must have felt the same thing Sammy had been feeling at the knowledge that their father had left, again. Except that while Sammy had Dean to make sure he didn't cry, Dean had had no one.

Sammy would have been miserable if it hadn't been for Dean. Dean had taken Sammy's sadness and simply vanished it away. As far as Sam could tell, no one had ever done that for Dean.

Sam felt so helpless and angry and twisted up inside he didn't know what to do. He was trapped, unable to intervene, simply watching this sad childhood unfold. He realised he wasn't even sure he wanted to witness this side of things, but that thought instantly renewed his sense of shame. Because although it didn't make sense, he felt he had some absurd duty to witness this. To be there. If Dean had had to deal with this, time and time again, the least Sam could do was bear witness to what he'd done. And by doing that, somehow, even though Dean wouldn't know it, it made Sam feel that Dean wouldn't be alone through it.

 _But that's not what I'm here for_ , he remembered with a start.

Dean, the future Dean, _his_ Dean, was dying. Of all the things he owed his brother, right now the only one that mattered was that he somehow find a way to save his life. He swallowed down on the memory of how lifeless Dean's body had been when he'd left him, but the image flashed in front of his eyes none the less and the emotions it raised choked him.

 _I swear I'll figure this out Dean, just hang in there._

He said it out loud, with so much fear and conviction it made his voice tremble and his heart beats ache in his chest. But Dean, leaning over in response to something Sammy had said or done, couldn't hear him.

Sam wanted to cry in his frustration, but he knew he had to keep it together. He crouched down in front of his brother, knowing it wouldn't make a difference but wanting to be close to him none the less and wishing, _willing_ , with every ounce of resolve he had inside him that he could connect with him somehow.

 _Do you hear me?_ he whispered hoarsely. _No matter what it takes, I_ _ **will**_ _save you Dean_.

At the mention of his name, Dean looked up.


	5. Chapter 5: No means No

_**Chapter 5: No means No**_

Sam blinked.

He could have convinced himself that Dean hadn't really reacted to him, that it was just a cruel coincidence of ironic timing, had it not been for the change in his brothers demeanour.

It was subtle and understated, but startling nonetheless, seeming to charge the air around him and age Dean to a vigilance well beyond his years. His shoulders immediately straightened, his young brow furrowing as his eyes narrowed and pupils sharpened. He was suddenly so still that Sam knew every muscle was instinctively tensed, taut and readied to snap to action. Even his ears seemed to prick up.

With his jaw firmly clenched, his young chin was more defined and set to a grim, sharp, line, and in that fleeting instant Sam saw the shadow of the man, of the hunter, that Dean would grow up to become flit across his features.

 _Dean._ Sam repeated again, almost a question, hopeful and surprised in equal measure.

And even though it became obvious that Dean couldn't see him, Sam knew every one of Dean's senses was now on high alert, and that somewhere on that radar, Dean had sensed and registered something. His eyes narrowed even more, and he vaguely leant forward towards Sam, head tilted ever so slightly to one side, as if straining to hear.

At some point, a protective instinct in Dean had subconsciously kicked in to make his arm reach around to encircle his younger brother, his hand gripping Sammy's shoulder as if ready to pull him close in an instant if need be. But the grip must have tightened too much as Sammy at first squirmed, and then let out a little yelp.

"Ow! You're hurting Dean!"

That remark snapped Dean's attention back and he turned to look at Sammy, blinking in confusion.

"What? … Oh. Sorry Sammy, I just…" Dean trailed off, looking about him again, still alert, but Sam could tell whatever connection there may have been was now severed.

Sammy had squirmed out of Dean's hold and was rubbing his shoulder, not seeming to fully accept the absent minded apology that had been offered up. He gave Dean a slightly wounded look before settling down, pointedly further away from him.

Dean didn't notice, still scanning the room uncertainly and not giving Sammy his full attention, except for his arm that still reached out subconsciously, hovering in mid-air towards his little brother, even as he turned his head away from him.

"…I thought I heard something." He said at last, more to himself than as explanation to Sammy, who simply huffed in response. For a moment more Dean looked about him, but then he shook his head as of to clear it, and Sam felt the tension ebb away.

For the next hour or so, Sammy proceeded to give Dean a hard time, ending in a fight of sorts between the two, caused by Sammy insisting on watching Sesame Street despite Dean wanting to watch something else. Sammy won out of course because he refused to back down and threatened to cry when Dean called him a baby, refusing to be reconciled until he got his way, until Dean finally got fed up trying to placate him and stomped into the kitchen to get some sort of dinner started.

Sam couldn't get Dean to sense his presence again. He tried of course, doing all the things he'd done before, but it was as if nothing had changed since they'd first arrived at the motel. For Sam, memory of the event was becoming somewhat hazy, and if he hadn't been so close to Dean at the time, close enough to catch the look in his eyes and see the change that had swept over him, Sam may have convinced himself by now that it had never even happened. That maybe he had been mistaken and that Dean had simply been spooked by the wind.

But he _knew_ Dean had felt something, and he knew he had to hold on to that knowledge, that truth. He knew he had to believe in it and in his brother's keen senses if he harboured any hopes of figuring this out.

Despite his efforts though, Dean simply wasn't registering him anymore, not outwardly at least, on any level that Sam could pick up on. After a while he gave up focussing on Dean and returned his attention to himself, meaning, to Sammy.

It occurred to Sam that other than the earlier attempt while his younger self had been sleeping, he hadn't really tried to connect with himself at all. It was the most obvious thing to try but if Sam was honest, he'd been avoiding it, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe there was some deep seated Freudian reason for it, but Sam didn't want to waste time self-analysing. It did occur to him though that self-inspection and connecting with his 'not-so-inner' child was exactly what he would be trying to achieve.

 _God but I'm short_ , Sam thought as he got down to his 5 year old self's level to be able to peer at him in the face. Sammy was lying on the floor, on his stomach, occupied with the colouring book and pens Dean had supplied him with some time earlier.

Despite not wanting any introspective self-reflecting confrontations, when he stared at this version of himself that had barely existed in the world for five years, it elicited a strange mixture of emotions within him. He was so young, so innocent. Knowing what Sam knew, knowing what was ahead, he couldn't reconcile all those feelings, all those _failings_ , with the happy, innocent child before him.

 _You will wreak so much damage_ he thought, the words forming before he could even stop them. _Look at you. You don't even know what you'll do_.

Those thoughts twisted into tendrils that carved and cleaved their way through him before wrapping around a heavy dense weight lodged in the pit of his gut.

In truth though, if he was being completely honest with himself, he was always aware of that weight, of that knowledge. It was always there, lurking inside like a calcified tumour.

The weight, the guilt, had dulled over time though, or changed. Its edges weren't as sharp as they had been and its presence wasn't as constant as it used to be, and there were times when he wasn't as keenly aware of it at all. There could be days, weeks even, when it was as if it had never existed and he had no knowledge of it ever having done so at all.

But awareness would creep back in, and it would be with a bittersweet relief that he would welcome its return; he knew if he could ever truly let it go, then it would mean he had become some other kind of monster, one that would disgust and repulse him even more.

It would return when his guard was down, when he was not expecting it at all. In the hours after a successful hunt when he should be relaxed and grateful, or on a night when sleep was elusive, his mind would inevitably turn to the things he had done, and the weight of that guilt would fall so heavily on him, he felt he would be crushed beneath it, and even that, if he were to be crushed and killed, would be a mercy.

Because he had so much guilt.

There were so many things he had done wrong in his life, so many bad choices and wrong turns and spilt blood and…. Well. His past was littered with regrets. Emotional shrapnel lodged so deep it had fused with him and could never be removed now.

If not completely coming to terms with it, he had at least learned to live with it, had grown around it. Accepted it as being a part of him and accepted it as a burden he would always have to carry.

But that didn't mean he wanted to dwell on it, certainly not right now, when there was something so much more pressing and urgent to deal with. But looking at his oblivious five year old self, he found it difficult to hide or shy away from those feelings.

 _Focus Sam, come on._ He rallied. _For Dean._ That thought grounded him and centred him and gave him the all the impetus he needed to be able to push all other feelings of guilt aside.

 _All right_. He thought. _Okay. How do I do this?_

Whatever it was that had had happened with Dean, if it hadn't been a complete fluke, then it had almost certainly been heavily reliant on Deans instincts and budding hunter's senses. Dean was more aware of his surroundings, certainly far more so than any normal nine year old would be. Or even most adults for that matter.

Sammy however was only five years old and Sam wasn't entirely sure how aware a five year old could be. He certainly couldn't fully recall every detail of his childhood at this age. There were snippets of memories from when he was five, and one or two of them were very vivid, but they all revolved around specific events. Things that had made a distinct impression for one reason or another.

Sam wasn't sure what he could do to make an impression however, especially given the fact that he couldn't seem to exert any physical influence or control on his surroundings. But hadn't Cas suggested that maybe his younger self would be able to see him? Sammy hadn't given any indication so far that he had seen a tall, frantic looking stranger occupying their motel room, but maybe Sam had to actively instigate an exchange in order to be noticed. He tried the obvious.

" _Hey kid… Uh… Sam, I guess…. Hi… Can you hear me?_ "

Sammy couldn't at all.

For some reason, Sam had felt oddly exposed and ridiculous during the awkward one sided exchange, and he was glad no one would ever have to know about it, a flush of embarrassment sweeping through him.

But embarrassed or not, he needed to connect with himself, if not with Dean, and as the afternoon crept closer towards evening, that urgency was only mounting.

 _Come on!_ He rallied again, panic and frustration battling to get the better of him. He took a deep calming breath in an attempt to marshal control back; his anger would get him nowhere.

 _Okay._ He breathed. _Okay, calm down._ He peered at himself. _Think._

For some reason his mind went to demons, perhaps precisely because he couldn't avoid confronting himself, and when the thought occurred to him he wondered why it had taken so long.

Demons were a form of consciousness after all, weren't they? Disembodied smoke until they took on a host. A meat suit. Well, _he_ was a disembodied consciousness right now, staring at his own… he couldn't bring himself to say meat suit… staring at his own body. Maybe he could somehow figure out a way to possess himself?

It didn't even occur to Sam that this might not be appropriate, that he might be in danger of inflicting severe psychological damage to his five year old self. All he could think about was figuring out a way to save Dean.

He tried focussing on that, focussing on, for want of a better phrase, possessing himself, on getting inside his head, not knowing how exactly to do it or what, if anything, would come of it.

Despite his misgivings though, something did happen.

Sam didn't know how to describe it exactly, just that he felt himself, for perhaps the first time since he had arrived there, actually forcibly moving, as though a rope was tied around his midriff and was tugging him through a placid body of water. But then he felt himself hit a solid barrier. He'd say with a thud except of course there was no sound. But he did feel himself recoil when he hit it, like having run into an invisible wall, and the part of Sam that still thought of himself in terms of having a human form imagined he fell back onto the floor, as much from shock as from the force of the impact.

"No." Sammy said, not looking up from his colouring book, but shaking his head. He didn't seem outwardly alarmed, and it was almost an absentminded refusal.

From his prone position, all Sam could do was stare at Sammy in mild shock. Even though Sammy wasn't looking at him, who else could he have been addressing right then?

 _Can you see me? Are you saying that to me?_

"No." Sammy repeated, more resolutely, focus still trained on his colouring book. "No. No. No! NO! NO! N–"

"What're you doing Sammy?" Dean had reappeared, probably alerted by the rise in Sammy's voice. He looked around the room before letting his gaze come to rest back on his brother. "You talking to yourself?"

Sam would have appreciated the irony of that had he not been so surprised at what seemed to have just transpired between Sammy and himself. Sammy simply shrugged, but then he sat up, looking at Dean, scrunching up his face as if he'd tasted something he didn't like.

"The big man is trying to come in, but I don't want him to."

Sam was so shocked by this it knocked every thought out from him.

"What man?" Dean was asking, attention immediately, obviously, turning to the windows and door, alarm rising in his features as he scanned all the possible entrances. "Is there someone outside?"

"I don't want him inside Dee. He's scary."

"What man Sammy?" Dean repeated, voice stern and eyes focussed, only barely maintaining a calm façade as Sam sensed the panic Dean was trying to conceal rise in him. He crouched down to Sammy's level. "Who did you see?"

"I didn't _see_ anyone." Sammy said, looking more annoyed and exasperated than Sam would have thought a five year old capable of. But then his face took on a solemn, almost fearful expression, and he shuffled towards his older brother, leaning in as if about to share a hallowed secret. "I don't want the scary man to get me Dean." He whispered earnestly, looking grave and afraid. "I don't think he likes me. He feels mean things about me."

Dean was still clearly on edge, probably thinking of all the monsters that he knew existed and that could potentially be on the doorstep about to rush in, and knowing Dean, trying to formulate exit strategies. Despite this hunters survival instinct however, there was something in Dean that overrode all of that, and he couldn't help but react to Sammy's immediate distress. His features softened, and although Sam could see through it, he knew Sammy wouldn't and that it would be precisely what a scared child would need to see right then.

"Hey." Dean said softly, placing his hands on Sammy shoulders and managing to sound somehow almost jovial. "Hey, look at me. No one's gonna get you Sammy. Not while I'm around. You know that. I'll never let anything hurt you."

Sammy had inched closer to his brother and looked about him fearfully even as Dean tried to get his focus. "Not even the big man?"

" _No one_. I promise. And hey, I bet there's no one even out there. I'll check for you."

But Sammy shook his head. "He's not out there. He's…." He struggled for a moment, but then finally looked at Dean and just shrugged, "nowhere." He finished, shoulders slumping and apparently leaving it at that.

Dean eyed him for a moment, weighing something up, before he spoke again. "Was probably just a bad dream, huh Sammy?"

Sammy angled his head to one side, eyeing his brother as he considered this, before nodding, seeming to settle on this explanation and, more likely, the reassurance that his big brother's promise of protection had afforded.

"Why don't you finish up here while I go to the bathroom, and then you can help me set the table?" Dean offered, and Sammy nodded.

Dean's assertion of needing the bathroom had only been a ruse, Sam discovered, because as soon as he left the room, he headed straight for at first the door, and then the windows, checking the salt lines and looking through the dirty panes for any sign of an intruder.

After a thorough inspection though, he appeared to be satisfied and Sam didn't know if he was frustrated by this or glad for his brother's relief at this apparent false alarm. While of course he was glad that Dean was calmer, that he wasn't completely freaked out anymore, Sam was aware that he was still stuck for a solution, because whether Dean could see a monster there or not, the monster was going to get Dean at some point in the upcoming week, and Sam needed to figure this out in time for when that inevitably happened.

Another thing also finally dawned on Sam. Clearly whatever he had done to Sammy, it wasn't good. He wasn't sure how this younger version of himself had managed to create that barrier, that force field, around him but other than keep him out, it finally made him realise that trying to invade it and break in, was perhaps not a very healthy or positive thing to do. He realised he had no idea what influence he would inadvertently exert. The knowledge and memories that he, as an adult, carried with him, had no place inside a five year old's head. No matter how much he thought he might be able to exert control over himself, even he finally realised how dangerous it would be if those memories escaped from him and leaked into Sammy. Hadn't Sammy already picked up on the fact that Sam wasn't entirely fond of himself? The implications of that had truly shocked Sam; that even when he thought he was completely focussed on the task at hand, his latent feelings and emotions towards himself had been so blatantly obvious and bare, that a five year old had been able to pick up on them and be scared by them.

Magnified. Hadn't that been what Cas had said?

He sighed, resigned and deflated. He needed to take stock. His time hadn't been a complete waste. He had learned a few things, even if nothing he had done so far had resulted in anything that had yielded immediate results. But at least he was beginning to believe that he could do something.

Dean had returned and as he was helping Sammy gather together the colouring pens that were scattered about the floor around him, he glanced at his book. Sammy had scrawled his name, 'Sam', crudely in the corners of one of the half coloured pages.

"Huh." Dean mused, sounding slightly impressed. "Where'd you learn that?"

 _Possibly from me_ , Sam thought hopefully, and despite his earlier misgivings he again began entertaining the idea of somehow forcibly controlling his younger self. But Sammy put an end to all those thoughts with his reply.

"The woman in the school."

"What school? Oh! You mean that play group thing you were at a few weeks ago?" Sammy nodded. "That wasn't a school. You wait till you _really_ start school… Still, you remembered that huh? That's pretty good Sammy." He looked down closer to scrutinise his brother's script, clearly impressed, and this seemed to please Sammy. "But here, your 'S' needs to be rounder, see?" and he knelt down to correct what Sammy had written, writing it again for Sammy to see the difference.

Sammy, who had intently been soaking in everything Dean was telling and showing him, watched his brother write his name again and then immediately copied it, looking at Dean for approval when he was done, taking the slight direction Dean gave and trying again.

Sam watched them silently, and he couldn't help marvelling at what he was seeing.

He wondered if their father had been this way towards Dean, whether John had spent time between hunts teaching Dean to write. As much as he wanted to allow their father the benefit of that doubt, he couldn't find it within himself to extend his belief that far. Dean had been taught to fight, to hunt, to strategize and survive, there was no doubt about that. But academics and schooling? That had been another matter. By the time Sam was old enough to have noticed, Dean had never seemed very interested or keen in it, and Sam suddenly wondered if perhaps it was simply because he had never received any encouragement in his infancy. Not from their father or anyone else. Not that there really _was_ anyone else; Dean didn't have the benefit of an older brother to cheer him on or deflect their father's scrutiny.

And besides, the life their father had planned for them, the lives of hunters, warriors, didn't really need traditional academic training. So maybe Dean had just realised this and accepted that there was no point, and somewhere in his young life, had simply stopped trying to put effort into achieving what must have seemed a fruitless and pointless endeavour. Maybe it had simply been his way of protecting himself from wanting something he felt he neither had aptitude to achieve nor would have opportunity to attain.

Whatever the reason, Dean had donned a persona farthest removed from academic very early on and to Sam it seemed his brother almost played up to it sometimes. That only made it more unexpected when that persona would slip and Dean would reveal himself knowledgeable about things other than hunting lore and strategy, things such as literature or obscure trivia or even, on occasion, principles of theoretical physics. Even as adults there were times when Sam was surprised and caught off guard at the things Dean knew, and that suddenly made Sam feel guilty now that he realised how he reacted towards Dean's displays of intellect. Why shouldn't Dean be expected to be smart? Why shouldn't Dean know things Sam didn't? Dean never seemed to take offence, because maybe he had grown accustomed to being thought of as nothing more than just a grunt.

But he _was_ more, and he _should_ be offended. Sam certainly felt offended on his behalf right then.

Throughout his private musings, Sammy and Dean had continued their impromptu lesson, and under Dean's watchful tutelage, Sammy's ability to write his name had improved considerably. So much so in fact, that Dean had decided Sammy was up to the challenge of tackling their last name.

Sam was beginning to realise that Dean's influence had probably shaped him in ways he would never fully realise. Maybe Dean had even planted the seeds in Sam's head that he, Sam, could leave this life. Could achieve something, anything, he wanted. He'd certainly said as much earlier, and was definitely indulging and encouraging his schooling right now.

The scene before him was something Sam couldn't bring himself to turn away from and it was in its own way, completely mesmerising.

There was a vulnerability in Dean in that moment, a sort of naked honesty as though he weren't hiding himself away behind any masks or false façades. Sam didn't see that in his brother very often any more, that kind of open self-less pride, certainly not directed towards him. Of course, he didn't do much to earn it these days, he realised. But right then, there was s something in Dean that made him seem gentle and tender and patient. The opposite of a hunter.

Of course Dean was still prone to expressions of affection towards Sam, and of course Sam knew that Dean loved him. But usually those emotions were only ever roused to the surface in either of them at times when the world was coming to an end or some other dire catastrophe was upon them, and at those times, Sam was probably not entirely able to focus on how open and honest Dean was being.

But there, right then, there was no immediate threat around or between the two of them that either of them could be aware of, so Dean had let his guard down and it let something else of his character and nature shine through. It was a rarely glimpsed side to him, a nurturing, paternal side, and like some prophetic mirage that would never be realised, it held a fleeting promise of the man Dean _could_ have grown up to be, had things been different for them both. Of another role he could have flourished and succeeded in, had he been on a different path.

And so this was Dean, the real Dean, laid bare. The big brother who had quietly been steering and guiding Sam along his whole life, before Sammy had ever realised, and before Sam had ever acknowledge. It made Sam wonder what kind of a man he, Sam, would have grown up to become if he hadn't benefitted from Dean's constant quiet belief in him, from his subtle encouragements and patient guidance. If Dean had simply not bothered to care, and if he hadn't, the way they had been raised, God only knew, no one could have blamed him, how would it have turned out for Sammy? What kind of a Sam would it have turned out?

But he _had_ cared, even when Sam had let him down, time and time again. He had cared, constantly and consistently and unrelentingly, right from the start, putting in all the time and effort and love that their two absent parents had never been able to provide.

 _That's why all my failures hurt you so much_ , Sam realised suddenly. _It's because you think that my failings are somehow your fault. As if it's a reflection of something you did wrong when you raised me, as if you let me down somehow. Your disappointment in me is just a fraction of the anger and blame my actions cause you to level at yourself._

The sudden epiphany of this, the clarity and insight of the thought, struck him as though it were a slap in the face, and the unspoken apology it elicited drained all the energy from him.

In the short time Sam had been there, he had seen and realised so much, that he suddenly felt overwhelmed. It had been too much to process, and he hadn't processed it at all and as much as he knew time was of the essence, at that moment he had to take a step back to deal with it all.

Sammy and Dean for their part continued with the remainder of their day oblivious of him, clearing up Sammy's pens, having dinner, watching something on the grainy TV screen. All the while the afternoon, and then the evening, had seeped away until it was finally night time and they were both in bed.

Sam watched them with a quiet dread, wondering if Dean would dream that night and of course more specifically, if that dream would contain the monster that Sam had come here to force Dean to confront.

No matter how much he tried to prevent Dean from sleeping, in the end, all he could do was watch as his brother fell into a fitful sleep.


	6. Chapter 6: Park Life

_**Chapter 6: Park Life**_

As it so happened, it had been Sammy, not Dean, who suffered from nightmares that night. Whether it was because of the Darona-Khab or just after-effects of the way Sam had spooked him, Sammy had an unsettled night.

Actually, the creature getting to both him and Dean would make sense, Sam thought. But if it hadn't managed to get its claws into Sammy that night there was only one reason, and it was the same one that would prevent Sam from being caught in its claws in the abandoned mill decades from now; namely, and unsurprisingly, it was Dean.

As soon as Sammy started to become unsettled, Dean had shifted in his sleep. Then, as Sammy had at first called out for their father and then, more urgently, for Dean, Dean had instantly shot out of bed and was by his side.

"It's okay Sammy." He soothed, through his own half awake, half sleep drenched state. "It's okay. I'm here. It's just a dream."

Sammy, who had been twisting and turning on his bed, immediately turned in towards his brother when Dean got into bed beside him, and the instant Sammy rested his head against Dean, he drifted back into a deep, comfortable sleep. Dean slid his arm around him like a protective guardrail and, assuming a half sitting, half lying position, remained like that for the rest of the night. Whenever Sammy gave even the slightest indication of being troubled, Dean's grip on him would tighten and the comforting assurances would flow from his lips, soothing Sammy in an instant. Any bad dreams lurking in Sammy's head trying to lay foundations, were continuously uprooted and removed by Dean before they could ever get purchase. Without even knowing it, Dean was probably saving Sam's life. Again.

The following day was spent much in the same vein for Sam as the previous; alternating between trying to get a reaction from Dean to being a voyeur on his and Sammy's life. He did manage a few close encounters, where again it seemed as though Dean was picking up on something and sensing his presence, but Sam couldn't get his head around how or why those incidents occurred long enough to control them before they passed. They only served to spook Dean and keep him on edge, and in the end, to Sam they felt like only minor pointless victories in a campaign he feared he was ultimately losing.

The night seemed to come far too quickly, and Sammy again had nightmares only for Dean to again take up his half awake, half asleep vigil over him.

Fuelled possibly by Sam's spooky presence, definitely by two nights of fitful sleep, and compounded by babysitting an increasingly bored five year old, by day three the confines of the motel room were chafing on a progressively weary Dean and the result had him chomping at the bit for a change of scene. It didn't help that Sammy was far too inquisitive about things that really should have been dealt with by a parent, not a young boy barely a few years older. Questions like; where's Daddy? Why does he leave us? When's he coming back? Why does Daddy work so much? What does he do? Why is Mommy in heaven? Why didn't we go with her?

It was the last two that always got Dean angry. Not at his brother exactly but at the reality they forced him to face and the emotions he couldn't hide and the answers he didn't have. At the sorrow that never left.

Half way through the day, Dean's seemingly habitual patience gave out and he snapped at Sammy who had been relentlessly pestering him all morning. As soon as he did though, Sam could see the regret flood into every line on Dean's face even as the anger still simmered there. Sammy in response became sullen while Dean turned his back on him and stormed towards the door. Once there, he simply stood frozen to the spot, face stony cold and fists clenched so tight they turned pale as the blood drained, his whole body almost shaking in anger and frustration as some other barely contained emotion radiated from him in cold, violent waves. He stood like that, as if on a precipice, as if the next step would seal the fate of world and he was just teetering there on a knife edge of indecision, fighting between directions. His jaw clenched and unclenched, his breathing was shallow and sharp, eyes screwed up tight and watering at the edges, and for the briefest of moments, Sam wondered if Dean might actually walk out and leave him.

But then he turned back, making a beeline for Sammy and without saying a word wrapped him in a hug, one so tight and strong and pure, it seemed its force alone would be enough to dispel every bad thing there could ever be in the world. As if everything else was miniscule and irrelevant and completely powerless in the face of such force. Safety incarnate. Sam remembered with an ache that it was exactly what Dean's true hugs made him feel, even as an adult. They made him feel better. They made him feel safe.

"I'm sorry." Dean whispered eventually, with so much shame in his voice it made Sam's own heart twist with humiliation at ever having doubted his brother.

Sammy assumed it was an apology for Dean's outburst, but Sam understood it was Dean's guilt for having wanted, even for a split second, to abandon Sammy and leave. At what Dean would shamefully but mistakenly perceive as a lapse and weakness. Sam wanted more than anything to tell his brother that it wasn't true, that it was the furthest thing from the truth there could be.

Sammy was already trying to wriggle free from Dean when their father called to check on them, and from Dean's disappointment and his half of the conversation that Sam heard, it was clear that John might not be back before the end of the week. That seemed to shift something in Dean, adding to his restlessness, but also somehow, adding to his silent resolve.

"Okay that's it!" Dean announced in the middle of the afternoon, starling both Sam's. "We're going out."

Sammy's eyes grew wide. "Daddy said we could?"

"Yeah… well..." Dean shifted on his feet, the slight tell-tale twitch tugging the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, come on, let's go."

It occurred to Sam, but not to Sammy, that this was probably, definitely, not something their father would have condoned. But Sammy didn't seem to care, only squealing in delight and struggling to get his shoes on.

Normally, before settling on a motel, their father would do a circuit of the local area to get a lay of the land and to spot any potential problems. A recon run, he used to call it. Perhaps Dean had spied a park in the neighbourhood, but even if he had, Sam would be astounded by Dean's geographic acuity if he could recall where it was exactly or how to get them there.

It turned out, Dean couldn't, because he led them straight to the motel reception, stopping a few feet away from the door to remind Sammy not to say or question _anything_ once they got inside.

Like their room, the reception was no different or distinct from any other they'd stepped into over the years, except that this time, unlike the others, Sam was nervous. This situation had him worried. If the clerk twigged to the fact there were two children staying essentially alone in the motel room, whose father had left them there to fend for themselves while he seemingly went AWOL, then one of their worst childhood fears would become reality in the form of a Child Protective Services Officer. They didn't look neglected or malnourished, their clothes were clean and so were they. But people could be strange when it came to judging other people's business.

And it didn't matter that, being from the future, he knew that it hadn't happened. He had already realised that if he managed to affect anything here, he might actually do something to alter a lot of things. After all, perhaps the very reason for Dean deciding to leave their room and wander out with Sammy was precisely because he, Sam, had given Sammy nightmares and had been spooking Dean for the past few days.

The clerk, a bored looking overweight middle aged woman with a half smoked lipstick stained cigarette wedged between her fingers, looked at them as they stepped in. She didn't seem overly interested, but then neither did she seem very friendly, or pleasant for that matter. If anything, initially her face betrayed a mild annoyance at having been disturbed from the soap opera she was watching on the small boxy TV set which sat perched on the corner of the countertop.

If her dismissive unfriendliness bothered Dean at all, he didn't let it show, and Sam wondered what play Dean was about to use. Big eyes and wounded cuteness? Or would he try to lay on the charm and sweetness? Not that it looked like either of those tact's would work on this woman. Whatever it was that he was thinking of doing, Sam had seen Dean immediately size her and the surroundings up, something Dean had done so surreptitiously, the woman hadn't even realised.

"Hey." Dean greeted her casually as he and Sammy stepped up to the counter that barely reached Dean's shoulder. "Could you tell me how to get to the local park?"

 _That was it?_ Sam gawped. _**That**_ _was the big play?_ _No small talk, no preamble, just straight out with it like that?_

The woman looked down at Dean, then leaned over the counter to assess Sammy. She took a long deep inhale of the cigarette before blowing the cancerous smoke out into the air above them as she sat back.

"Where's your parents?" She asked, ignoring Dean's question and eyeing him with a mixture of boredom and mistrust.

Sam's heart was thudding anxiously in his chest, but Dean simply shrugged, looking to one side as if casually interested in the TV show as he responded. "My dad's out meeting some army buddy of his. Said me and my brother could go meet him in that park around 4. But I can't remember where he told me it was. Like I know it's a few blocks from here but…" He trailed off, shrugging, calm indifferent swagger hiding any flickers of fear or inklings of subterfuge.

"Uh huh... Your daddy leave you alone in there?"

"Just since 2. Why?"

"How come y'all are staying in a motel?"

"We're heading up to Louisville to stay with my aunt for the summer." The lie tripped easily and casually from Dean's lips and not for the first time, Sam again felt sad and impressed all at once. His brother really had been cool.

Dean continued "Dad said if we drove up, he could meet his buddy along the way, but he said he wasn't the kind of guy he wanted us to be around, whatever _that_ means." Dean feigned a yawn as if bored by his own story. That was the hallmark of a convincing lie after all, to make it seem so dull and uninteresting, to make even yourself seem so tired of it that no one could guess you had fabricated it. After all, if it was something you'd made up, surely there would be a bit of proud ownership, surely you'd try a little harder to convince people of it, wouldn't you?

Dean knew how to play this trick of verbal sleight of hand very, very well, and it seemed to be working. And he'd played the whole thing just right, Sam realised. He'd known the instant he'd walked in that there was no way this woman would care enough, or could be bothered enough to disrupt her day enough, to call Child Services. That would no doubt be more hassle in her eyes than Sammy and Dean were worth. She just needed enough of something that sounded vaguely true in order to absolve herself of any responsibility, but that was also too boring to be worth any prolonged prodding or interest.

Dean eyed the woman for a moment, waiting for an answer. Then, to land it home he made a point of looking over her shoulder as if to catch sight of the time on the clock behind her.

"Oh wow, it's almost four. Never mind, it's okay, we'll ask someone outside. Thanks anyway." He turned to leave, with an obedient Sammy following close by his side.

They'd barely reached the door before the woman spoke to their backs in a dull, bored monotone, her eyes already back to the TV set. "Two blocks to the left, then take a right."

Given that the summer holidays were in full swing, the play area was busy, with lots of parents and children. The moment they entered it Dean let go of Sammy's hand and, after a quick glance up at his brother to check that it really was all right, Sammy ran off towards the nearest slide, beckoning Dean over, all laughs and excitement.

Dean chased after Sammy, and the two of them did the rounds of the play area, fliting from one section to the next, Dean happy to indulge Sammy on whichever piece he wanted to try. Sammy was an energised ball of thrilled, giggling excitement and Dean was a patient and tolerant older brother, happy to be chasing Sammy, or pushing him in the swing, or to let him swing from the monkey bars, allowing him to think he was doing this all by himself when in reality his weight was resting securely on Dean. Sammy of course was oblivious to this and to the fact that his shoe had connected with Dean's chin on more than a few occasions as he excitedly clambered forward. But Dean didn't complain.

Sam watched them not able to keep from smiling, and felt a sudden rush of nostalgic memories erupt in him. They were not specifically of this event, at least he didn't think so, but there was a jumbled collection of memories, all mixed up, that suddenly flooded his mind. It was as though a box in a dusty sunlit attic where these featherlike memories had been left, hidden and forgotten, had suddenly been upturned and they were now all floating around him, infusing him with a hazy feeling of joy.

He remembered feelings he'd had at times like this throughout his childhood. Times when Dean would sneak them out and take them somewhere, an arcade, or a mall, or the cinema, or a park. Even one time, oh god how could he have forgotten that!? One time when Sam was about 13 or so and Dean had snuck them into a field with a ton of fireworks so that they could have their own Fourth of July celebration and they had ended up burning the field down and even though he had been scared, they had both laughed _so hard_ while Dean drove them away that he thought he'd never breath straight again, and any fear or worry or anxiousness he could have ever harboured had simply fizzled away to nothing because he was with Dean and that meant he was safe, would always be safe.

Sam suddenly remembered that with such clarity it was as though the memory was playing out right in front of him on a big screen and he remembered it all, the smell of the fireworks, the excitement of the explosions, the awe and beauty of the cinders as they fell and floated all around him, the security of being with Dean, the smile on Dean's face when he looked at him, the easy, uncomplicated way in which he used to be able to hug his brother. At the way Dean would accept those hugs without an ounce of reservation or embarrassment. And he remembered how he had felt back then, in that perfect snow-globe moment; exhilarated and excited and happy and alive and free and unburdened, like the whole world belonged to just him and Dean and that it was a good world to be in right then because he had nothing to apologise for.

Throughout his childhood, Dean had been his hero. Dean had been the one who could make him feel safe. Most of the good things that had happened while he was growing up, were there because Dean had tried his best to make good things happen for him.

Growing up, Sam had always had this image of Dean being the _big_ brother, in every sense of the word. Of him being tough and brave and generally just _big_. The sheer vastness of Dean's presence in Sam's eyes had filled his vision when he'd been young, filled his world. For a long, long time, whenever Sam had looked up, it had always been Dean's face he saw smiling down at him. And he'd tried to absorb everything he could, had in fact, for a time, been obsessed with his brother, following him around to the point that even their father had told him to back off and give Dean some space. But he couldn't help it. Everything had been about Dean. About what Dean did, what he said, how he walked, what he wore, what he ate, what he drank, what he thought, what he watched, every minute detail he could acquire and horde, like some strange little hobbyist, he'd collect in his head and try to mimic in his life. His memories and feelings were clouded by that. In his youth he had scrutinised Dean, magnified him like a butterfly under a microscope, making him so much larger than life.

But now, seeing it with adult eyes, he could see how obscured and skewed his youthful perspective had been. How he'd been completely blind to the obvious. Dean may have _seemed_ to Sammy to be the big, strong, superhero of a brother, but in reality, Sam could see Dean was obviously just a normal child. And not a huge one at that, he was lean and average and so incredibly young that his tough persona only served to make him seem incredibly fragile. Sam could never remember Dean to be as small and young as he actually had been, because in his mind, in his eyes, Dean had never been a child, he had always been his big brother. Growing up, the two had been mutually exclusive.

Except now he could clearly see that they absolutely weren't. Of course it was such an obvious statement that he felt foolish for never thinking it before, but it was precisely _because_ it was so obvious that he hadn't thought about it. But being there now, he could see just how truly young Dean really was, how young he had been the whole time Sam had been looking up to him and expecting him to be infallible and absolute. Seeing Dean's youth only made the burden of responsibility he had shouldered since as long as Sam could ever remember seem that much more immense. Sam had crumbled under the weight of being expected to lead a hunter's life, so much so that he had run away, more times than one. He now knew there must have been countless times when Dean must have wanted to do the same. Except that unlike Sam, Dean never had.

Looking at the open smile and warmth radiating from Dean as he laughed with Sammy, Sam knew that the only reason Dean would have swallowed down that urge and found the inner resolve to time and time again stay and gut it out, would have been for him. Whether Sam felt he deserved it or not, when it came to him, Dean's reservoir for strength and resilience was endless.

Sam didn't know when he had started to overlook that, or maybe he had never really appreciated it in the first place. He realised he had just developed the expectation that this was what Dean did, that this was simply what he was supposed to do. Maybe at some point he had even started resenting it, absurd and ungrateful as that sounded, because it began to seem to him that Dean simply fell in line, followed orders, never wanted out of the hell Sam felt their lives were. He hadn't stopped to consider that Dean was making active choices and sacrifices; sacrifices for _him_. He supposed it was the fate of most parents, to have their sacrifices go unseen and unappreciated, ultimately overlooked and forgotten under the assumed cloak of responsibility and a misplaced illusion of choice.

When he'd left for Stanford he was being fuelled by all the resentment and bad memories he'd accumulated over the years, and he'd clung to those because the bad memories were the only ones that could feed his desire to leave, that could be used by him to stay focussed and determined. They were the ones that served as his mental arsenal and internal armour, his self-propelling propaganda to push him to an escape velocity he wouldn't have been able to fuel or achieve had he allowed himself to become complacent and accepting of that life. The good memories, the happy ones, well, they would have only made him want to stay, would have weakened his resolve, and he had been so desperate to leave he'd discarded them, had almost forgotten them completely. He'd put those happy memories in that box and in his desperate bid for freedom and independence, he'd buried them without a thought.

But now the box was unearthed and as the warm joyfulness of those memories flooded into him it was with such an intense bittersweet nostalgia that it made him both yearn to be back in those moments but also want to turn away from the unbearably sad realisation that this, all of this, was all gone forever and would never come back. Neither of them, not Dean nor Sam, would ever be this innocent or joyful ever again. There would always be something, some overarching terror, some constantly murmuring threat, some world saving sacrifice or just another person's death to add like a stone to the latent pile of misery and guilt that they would both complicity accept and carry with them on their endlessly burdened consciences.

Even though he was witnessing this joy again, for what felt like the first time, he knew they would never be that version of themselves ever again. But worse, he knew in about fourteen or so years' the version of himself he was looking at would be long gone, to be replaced by someone who would, by his own actions and choices, wilfully throw this all away, discarding and abandoning Dean to selfishly turn his back on this and walk out. Someone who had undoubtedly broken Dean's heart.

He hated that. Hated himself for that. Even though he knew it had felt like he'd been left with no choice at the time, he hated it.

And he paid for it with the crushing sense of shame and regret and self-loathing that he felt now.

And yet…

And yet, despite the dark shadowy stain of his remorse, he found that the joy he could see in both their faces, in Sammy's and Dean's, the laughter that was carrying over and the carefree happiness that they were lost in, outshone any dark feelings of self-loathing or regret or guilt. Despite himself, he couldn't help but let it wash over him, almost as if it could wash away that stain and heal him, leaving him feeling somehow safe in the knowledge that times like these _had_ happened and that they _had_ been happy sometimes, once.

So…

So maybe there was hope that a shade of that joy could seep back in and colour their lives again? They had inhabited that shared joy once, they could rekindle some part of it again. These memories were precious, something to be safeguarded, treasured and valued, not forgotten and discarded like they almost had become. He knew how lucky either of them were that they'd had times like these. Between the pair of them, the memories they'd created were almost the only things that redeemed them, that gave the world they saved and the fight they fought any meaning at all.

When he looked at his brother, at _his_ Dean, he could share a memory with him and it could be a good one because there _were_ good ones to choose from. There were so few people left in their lives they could do that with that it made what he and Dean shared all the more precious for its scarcity. Dean was the _only_ one in the world he could look back with over a lifetime of hunting and actually pick out good memories. Without his brother, there would be nothing left. That was why neither could afford to let the other go.

It was just one of the many reason's he _wouldn't_ let Dean go.

There was a sudden ache in Sam's heart right then, and he wished he could bring Dean back here, back with him, to share this. Which seemed a stupid thing to feel and think, since both of them were there. But as an adult, Dean would have loved to have seen it, to have seen them. There was nothing egotistical about it, he knew immediately that it would have just made Dean happy to have seen how happy he had made them both. To see Sammy laugh. To see that he, Dean, had always been a good brother.

Sammy was tugging at Dean's arm now in an attempt to pull him towards the conveniently parked ice-cream truck. Dean allowed himself to be towed along, while he rifled through his pockets for any lose change. Even from his distance, Sam could see there wasn't much money in Dean's hand, but it turned out to be just enough for two cones.

Dean carried both as he led them back to the side of the play area, handing Sammy's to him as they stood under the shade of a tree. They were barely a few licks in when a pair of children ran past, one of them bumping into Sammy and knocking his cone from his hand. It landed, scoop first, into the dirt, beyond any hope of salvation. Dean shouted out after the two boys who had caused this, but they were already lost to the masses. He turned back to see Sammy staring down at the remnants of his cone, mortified. Sam knew they didn't have enough money for another but even as he wondered this, Dean simply handed Sammy his own without so much as a moment's hesitation. Sammy accepted, smiling as if it was the embodiment of all his birthday wishes, and was about to start eating before something occurred to him and he held it out to Dean, offering to share. Any nine year old would have wanted more than just the one or two licks that Dean had managed, especially in the heat of a sun scorched June day, but Dean just shook his head and straightened, letting Sammy enjoy the cone.

Sam had, he realised, taken for granted all the things, big or small, that Dean had done for him every day, to the point where he had forgotten them completely. And then, in the end, he had wanted to get away from that life so badly, that everything in it had ended up being something he couldn't bear. Something that he needed to leave behind. And that had meant leaving Dean behind. Dean had been too similar to their father in that Dean had accepted their hunting life, and to Sam, that had made him part of what he needed to escape. So he had left Dean, had done it without even thanking him or apologising. He had always known that it had hurt Dean. He was only now beginning to appreciate just how deeply his abandonment must have hurt, and why.

He was going to fix that, he realised. He couldn't stay here in the past to fix the mistakes in their lives, but when he returned, after saving his brother, he would fix it. He was overcome by an urge again to reach out to Dean, but it was with great effort that he resisted. He felt in that moment he could have achieved a connection with Dean, similar to the one he had achieved before, but he knew how much that had spooked Dean and he didn't want to spook his brother again, especially not out here where he was likely to feel extra vulnerable if anything supernatural happened. For the first time since they had arrived at the motel, Dean seemed truly carefree and happy, and Sam didn't want to steal that from him. He just wanted Dean to enjoy being a nine year old in the park, like any other normal child.

He watched as Dean cleaned Sammy up, barely managing to wipe the ice cream from his chin before Sammy pointed towards the nearby sandbox.

Dean nodded a go ahead but didn't follow. It seemed he was going to sit this one out, letting Sammy explore the play pen on his own while perching himself on the nearby swing set, warily keeping one eye on his brother. The majority of his attention however was now directed to the two eleven or so year old girls who occupied the swings next to him.

 _Seriously dude?_ Sam thought, both amused and appalled. _At age_ _ **nine**_ _?_

He wondered what Dean could possibly be talking about, but then realised that he really didn't want to know. That would be an invasive and not to mention embarrassing step too far into the private life of Dean Winchester.

Still, it was oddly comforting, in its own surreal way. It reminded him a lot of the Dean he knew, the one who always caught someone's eye at the bar, or the one who couldn't help giving the waitress a second glance. In a bizarre way, it was reassuring to be able to see his Dean budding through in this younger fledgling version.

But he still didn't want to know too much about it.

Whether or not whatever Dean was saying was working or falling on deaf ears, Sam couldn't tell as he manoeuvred himself out of earshot. But whatever it was and however it was going, it took Dean's attention away from Sammy long enough for him to not notice that the younger Winchester was standing still in the sand box, completely engrossed now by a ball that was being accidentally kicked around the play area as children ran back and forth.

The ball rolled close to the edge of the sandbox, and after a moment's hesitation Sammy started walking towards it only for it to be kicked by someone's foot, changing its direction. This happened a few times while Sammy pursued it, and every time it did, it seemed to take Sammy further and further away from Dean. The latest kick sent it near the gate which someone had left open and Sammy followed suit. Just as it seemed he would finally possess the ball, it got kicked again, this time connecting with someone's foot hard enough to send it flying. In his childish singlemindedness Sammy gave chase and Dean looked up just in time to see him running out from the play area and towards the road.

Dean immediately leapt from the swing, causing one of the girls to let out a startled yelp and a few of the parents to look over in their direction. But Dean didn't notice and was already half way across the play area; the girls and everything else forgotten. He bumped and knocked at least three children and practically flew through the open gate, just as Sammy was about to run out onto the road. He yanked at Sammy's shoulder just as the young child reached the edge of the curb, his own speed making him overshoot Sammy by a stride so that he ended up in front of him, where he pushed Sammy back further.

"What the hell Sam! How many times has Dad told you to not wander off?!"

Tears instantly welled up in the five year olds eyes and he took a few steps back from his brother, shocked and stung as much by Dean's raised voice as from the hard shove. It also probably wasn't lost on even a five year old Sammy that Dean had used the shortened version of his name, not the longer term of endearment that only Dean would ever be allowed to get away with.

"Daddy isn't here." Sammy argued, as if that logic held weight, and for all Sam knew, maybe to a five year old it did. Dean, who was now himself standing on the road, was breathing hard, his mini lightning fast sprint seeming to have taxed him.

A cloud of anger was cast over his features, and even though it softened a little the instant he saw Sammy's eyes brim with tears, it still threw its shadow over his young face.

"It doesn't matter! You can't just run off like that… And don't cry."

With a hiccupping gulp that sucked in air, Sammy immediately clamped his mouth shut, trying to get his emotions in check, silently hiccupping twice more in quick succession. He sniffed, but to his credit, he didn't cry, his quick blinks seeming to pull the tears back into the ducts.

"Are you gonna tell Dad?" Sammy asked fearfully, the hard work of barely controlled tears threatening to be undone as he uttered that question.

Dean, still trying to normalise his breathing, considered this, and some other realisation clearly formed in his mind.

"No." He answered finally. "As long as you don't do it again. _Ever._ And you don't tell Dad we came out here. If you do, I swear–"

"I won't!" Sammy cut him off, readily agreeing to the secret and seemingly relieved just in the knowledge that his brother, despite seeming to still be angry, was willing to forgive him enough to conceal his trespass from their father.

"Don't ever run off without me like that, okay?" Dean re-emphasised, tone still stern but softening now.

"I won't ever leave you again." Sammy said earnestly, "I promise." He added, nodding his head and making an invisible Sam wish for all that was in him that he could have kept his word.

Dean heaved a heavy sigh, bending over to rest his hands on his knees and letting out a long slow breath. "Jeez Sammy, you really scared me." But the anger had left his voice completely now and all he looked and sounded was genuinely relieved.

Perhaps because any adrenaline from giving chase to Sammy had by now left him, or perhaps because he hadn't properly slept, or maybe a combination of both, but whatever it was, Dean simply didn't seem to be aware that he was standing in the road.

Aware of that or of the car that had swerved suddenly to avoid a ball, and was now headed straight for him.


	7. Chapter 7: Where there's a Will

_**Chapter 7: Where there's a Will**_

Sam saw it before anyone else had even noticed and in that instant he knew by the time Dean would realise, it would be too late.

 _Dean!_

The thought had barely formed before it all happened. Without even really acknowledging what he was thinking or doing or _feeling_ , he was hurtling towards his brother, and impossibly, in what felt like the same instant, he slammed into him. Instead of being rebuffed like he had been with Sammy however, this time he actually felt himself connect with Dean. Felt himself _merge_ with him. Felt himself take control and lunge Dean forward and out of harm's way, instincts taking over and reacting just as the car sped past, close enough for him to hear the driver elicit a _Woah_ before the car was gone.

The force with which Sam had quite literally, barrelled _into_ Dean and launched him forwards, sent them both hurtling to the pavement, barely missing Sammy by a hair.

For a fraction of an instant Sam felt the familiar sensation of having an actual body return to him and realised how strange and heavy and constricting it felt, like wearing a thick jumper and trying not to drown. But there was also another sensation, one that was apart from him. Initially all he sensed from it was confusion but it quickly transformed to a rising awareness, then panic, then forceful control and guardedness, as if protective barriers were suddenly going up and strategic senses were being aligned. Just as he realised that this was _Dean_ , he was shunted out. Out from Dean's mind or body or wherever it was he had been and back in his formless, disembodied state, viewing the scene before him; that of Dean sprawled face down on the pavement and Sammy tugging at his arm to help him up.

"Are you okay Dee? Did you trip?" Sammy asked, small chubby hand resting on his brothers shoulders and young eyes wide with concern.

Dean sat back on his haunches, rubbing the forearm which he had instinctively pulled up as defence to break his fall and which was as a result badly scraped. He looked confused, if not a little dazed, and any of the tension which the trip to the park had alleviated, was now back with twice the vengeance.

"Yeah… guess I must have." He replied slowly, looking about him and then catching the worried, scared look in Sammy's eye. "Hey, it's okay." He reassured, voice immediately soothing and attention seemingly focused entirely on his brother.

Sammy nodded but his breath hitched with another silent hiccup as if he were fighting the urge to cry, and it was all the prompting Dean needed. He pulled his baby brother in to a hug. "It's okay Sammy, I'm fine. I just tripped, is all."

He let Sammy go, holding him at arm's length and cocking a grin, putting up a brave face despite the cuts and grazes on his arm which Sam suspected must have begun smarting pretty badly by now.

"See? Nothing bad at all."

Sam instantly saw behind this mask to the worry and fear that Dean was feeling, but Sammy was still too young to pick up on his brothers' subtle bluffs and readily believed him. He nodded, seemingly convinced, but his hand remained on Dean's shoulder until Dean gingerly stood up, taking his shoulder from Sammy's reach. Dean brushed himself off, a small cloud of dust rising from his jeans as he did so. He noticed with a frown that his jeans were also scuffed at the knees, and on one side there was a small dark stain from the blood seeping through.

Despite having only sustained very mild injuries, their minor near miss hadn't gone unnoticed, and a few concerned parents were looking their way, one or two scanning around the play area, undoubtedly trying to identify the negligent parents of these two seemingly unsupervised children. It would only be a matter of time before one of them headed over in a misguided attempt to be helpful. Dean clocked all this and immediately realised it was time to leave.

"Come on Sammy." He said, turning and leading his brother away quickly. "Maybe we'll come back tomorrow or something."

The short trip back to their motel was uneventful, with Dean being extra vigilant when crossing the roads and Sammy being quiet and co-operative, if not a little subdued.

Sam for his part was glad to return to the relatively safe confines of their room. Everything had happened so quickly, instantaneously in fact, that he was still reeling from it. It was a good thing, a great thing, but there was just too much to process. He needed space and time to regroup and understand what had just happened.

If Dean was still aware of his presence, he gave no indication, but he was definitely spooked as they re-entered their room. He double checked the salt lines as soon as Sammy was settled in front of the TV with a juice box, and went as far as to crawl under their beds and, using one of Sammy's colouring pens, drew a crude but accurate looking warding symbol beneath each one.

Despite wanting to focus on finding answers, Sam couldn't help but get side-tracked as he observed Dean, watching him with a small measure of sadness at the knowledge that this was how Dean, at age nine, existed. That this was how he lived and how he was reacting to what had happened. Not brushing it off like a normal child, not out riding his bike with friends, not able to talk to a responsible adult about his quiet concerns, but instead worrying about monsters and demons, drawing warding symbols and reinforcing salt lines, fearing attacks and intruders and knowing monsters were real. He didn't know when Dean had been told the truth by their father. He suspected, judging by how much like a hunter Dean already behaved and reacted, that their mother's death had taken Dean's luxury of ignorance with her, along with the chance to indulge in any kind of childhood security it might have once afforded.

But Dean, his Dean, the one he had left behind in the future and the one who was slowly dying, he reminded himself soberly, had never ever complained, at least not to Sam's knowledge, about any of the burdens or responsibilities that had been thrust upon him.

By now Dean was busying himself in the kitchen, and had enlisted Sammy's help.

At first Sam thought this was another aspects of Dean's parental and nurturing side that he was only now getting to appreciate. However it slowly dawned on him as he watched how close Dean kept Sammy, how he kept an arm around him more often than not, and didn't let him get more than two paces beyond his reach, that Dean harboured a more serious ulterior motive for enlisting Sammy as a kitchen hand; he wanted to keep an eye on him, wanted to keep him close and, as always, protect him and keep him safe above all else.

Sammy for his part seemed completely unaware and was immensely happy to be helping with what he referred to as 'big people stuff', soaking up all of Dean's patiently given guidance about measuring and pouring and stirring with solemn intensity. It was only macaroni and cheese, but it was still more than most children could have manged unsupervised, certainly more than Sam himself had done at age nine.

It could have been a happy sight to see; two brothers making dinner. But it was a bitterly deceptive scene played out only to fool Sammy, whose benefit it was for and who was too young and naïve yet to suspect or fully appreciate it. Even if Sam tried to ignore the blatantly obvious absence of a mother and father who should have been somewhere in this picture, or ignored the gun Dean had tucked into the back of his jeans, covering the butt with his tee, there was still Dean himself and his rigid demeanour.

Sam's encounter with him, while having saved his life, had left Dean on high alert. His body was now all angular lines of tripwires and hair triggers, and with every coiled muscle, every tensed movement, every furtive glance to scan the corners of the room and every stolen look to check over his shoulder, Dean was ready for a fight. Ready to shoot, dodge, punch, or run, whichever would be needed and in whatever order.

Sam didn't know how Dean was managing to keep up the charade and maintain his calm patience with Sammy, but it made the whole scene all the more sickening to watch, as if Dean could feel an invisible gun pointed at his head. He wondered how many other instances there had been throughout their childhood where he had been oblivious to Dean's fear and pain. Where Dean had had to sacrifice his own desire and need to be a child all because of Sammy and the responsibility that was always on his shoulders. Probably more than Sam would ever get to know. It was obviously such a common thing that this incident hadn't even registered with the adult Dean, who hadn't been able to recall it.

Their lives were so messed up.

Suddenly, everything seemed to catch up with Sam and he couldn't bear to see it anymore because it had been this, _this_ , that had been the most pervasive underlying catalyst for all his hatred of their adolescent lives. This constant secrecy and denial, the unrelenting duality of maintaining a pretence of normalcy while being aware of absurdly fatal threats, this had been the lifestyle choice he had never truly been able to accept or climatise to. Always with the subterfuge, always with the need for bravado, never being able to open up, never being able to have friends.

They pretended for all the outside world to be a typical, normal family while being in truth the furthest thing from it, and the whole constant charade of it left him aching more than anything for a life that could be just that; _normal_.

He felt sick and sickened, and all the feelings he thought he had outgrown came crashing back into him in one concentrated punch. He felt powerless, angry, trapped, suffocated, and most of all, just like he had felt throughout his adolescence, he was overwhelmed by a desperate, uncontrollably forceful, urgent desire to just leave and be removed as far away from that life as he could ever possibly go.

The instant that feeling radiated through him, everything became dark.

He didn't know what had happened at first, and for a moment he thought he was still in the motel, that the lights, all the lights everywhere, had suddenly gone out. But he realised the absurdity of that the moment he thought it, and then it dawned on him. He was back in the nothingness in to which he had first been transplanted when Cas had detached his consciousness from his body.

Panic immediately flared up in him. How could he have abandoned Dean! _Again!_

 _No! No! Go back, go back!_ He was shouting to himself, but nothing happened. He was stranded he realised. More than that, it were as though he were stuck deep under a vast ocean of quick drying cement, being buried alive.

He was panicking. He was going to be stuck here, suspended in this nothingness, conscious forever but unable to move, and aware for ever that he had let his brother die. That he had let Dean down, that he had run away again. That Dean was going to die and he had left him, _again_ , and _oh god!_ Dean was probably already dead by now.

 _NO!_

He didn't know what it was that happened or how, but there was an energy behind that word that seemed to resonate with power, stemming from the very centre of his being, creating a forceful wave that radiated outward and fractured the cement-like tomb around him. For the briefest moment a triumphant flash of hope razed through him, but then it faded again as the ocean around him began to reset.

This was becoming a reoccurring feature, he noted with anger and annoyance. Things were happening, _he_ was doing things, potentially useful things, but he had no idea how. Which of course rendered them completely useless for all intents and purposes.

How the hell was he supposed to get back to Dean now? Again a wave of panic started to rise but this time he managed to calm himself, knowing that his panic would help him achieve nothing.

Interestingly, that ocean of cement which had started to churn and solidify again in response to his panic, seemed to ease and ebb as he regained his composure.

 _I can control this_ , he suddenly realised. Cas had said as much to him, had told him that he had to focus and control and direct himself, but he hadn't paid enough attention, hadn't understood the implications, until just now.

In everything he had done so far, every interaction, every instance in which he had managed to achieve something, he had been willing with a completely single-minded focus on achieving his goal. From the first instant he had left that nothingness and found Dean at the right time and place, a feat actually amazing in itself, to the last interaction on the roadside, or even this thing that had happened now, in each instance he had been overcome by a focused desire to make it happen. That focus had been both decisively wilful and yet uncontrollably instinctive, and even though both terms seemed contradictory he knew it was true. All that wilful intent had been focused to a laser point targeted almost always at Dean.

The wilful part he could understand, but the uncontrollable part was harder to define.

It was emotions perhaps, emotionally triggered or powered, because hadn't Cas said something along those lines? About human consciousness being complex and entwined with emotions. On every occasion so far when he had managed to interact with either Sammy or Dean, or even now when he had returned here, it had been when his emotions had been running high, almost out of control. With Sammy his latent negative emotions had been clouding his focus and while they had been evident enough to enable Sammy to rebuff his progress, perhaps they had also been an influential factor in actually enabling something to happen.

It might also explain how every interaction with Dean so far had been so much more intense and productive than anything he felt he'd managed to achieve with Sammy. Sam's emotions towards himself, even a five year old version of himself, were certainly different than they were towards Dean, at any age. He didn't want to confront himself, or dwell on himself, but Dean was different. There had been times in the past few days when he'd been hovering like a voyeur, unable to take his eyes off Dean, unable to turn away from this chance of a second glimpse at the brother he had never fully appreciated, seeing him as if for the first time in a clearer light and seeing how truly justified the label of hero that he had placed on him all those years ago really was. It was like rediscovering his brother all over again, and rather than finding him lacking in any way, he had instead developed a renewed sense of awe and respect for the quiet, resilient and amazingly strong boy who had occupied that lonely and surreal existence with him for all those years.

And besides he was here doing all this because of Dean after all. Without even being able to help it, instinctively Sam felt something very different towards Dean than he did towards Sammy, than he did towards any one. Something much more deeply affectionate and pure. Something so innate that it could never die or be diminished or overcome, no matter what happened between them or how much the evil in their lives challenged it and tried to chip away at it time and time again. What he felt for Dean would always win out, would always weather the storms, would always recover and repair itself. What he felt for Dean would always be his centre and his certainty, anchoring him in a life and world he sometimes felt constantly at odds with.

With Dean was where he belonged. Any other life now would be as counterfeit and superficial as the lies they had lived as children, would be as unbearable as the life he had once tried to escape.

He could accept that he realised. All the restlessness that he hadn't even realised he had been carrying around inside him seemed to unravel and dissipate as he realised that thought.

Whatever Dean's failings might be, whatever Dean had done over the years and whatever their lives would force him to do in the future, Dean could never fall as far in Sam's estimation as he himself had. As their father had. As everyone else might do. Dean would always return to his position on that pedestal, would always be his compass, would always be the one he would look up to and hold as an example of what goodness and strength should be. And Dean would never, ever fail him. Whether Dean was staring down angel's heaven bent on beating affirmations from him or whether he was glaring Death in the face, Dean's strength, his goodness, everything that made Dean _Dean_ , would always come through for Sam.

Dean would always be untouchable because of that, indelible. His impression of Dean would always recover. When it came to be tested Dean would always live up to the expectations Sam had of him, no matter how high or seemingly untenable. Time and time and time again. And every bruise that Sam's anger would inflict, every dent in that idealised perfection, every resentment born out of Sam's frustration, everything, anything, would always be healed by the love for Dean that Sam simply couldn't control. The love that Dean had _earned_ and bestowed, without any expectations, time and time and time again.

Deep inside he knew he would always forgive Dean, no matter what he did; he simply didn't have it within him not to. Dean would always, _always_ , be the exception to any and every rule, be forgiven any and every thing.

In the simplest terms he could define it, he loved Dean more than he could ever love himself, more than he would ever love anyone. Dean would always be where his heart came to rest.

As a child, Dean had been his whole world.

As an adult, Dean was his home.

As he formed this obvious realisation, all those realisations, there was a calm that seemed to settle around him in that nothing space. He could almost call it a tranquillity of sorts. This dark, empty, barren vacuum that he didn't even really know how to define, and that had at first seemed immeasurably vast and then inescapably suffocating, now seemed incapable of touching him at all, as if he were floating apart from it somehow. It was as though that knowledge, the realisation of how he felt about Dean, the intensity and purity of that emotion, gave him some kind of power. The knowledge of it draped itself around him like a protective second skin, giving him cohesion and keeping him safe, making him strong.

He should have been panicking. He should still have been floundering and drowning in solidifying quicksand perhaps, at the fact of being back here, but he didn't feel that way anymore. Not at all. Instead he felt suddenly incredibly composed and in control, and most importantly, for the first time since he had left Dean unconscious on that warehouse floor, he genuinely believed he _could_ save him. Not a blind hopeless quest, aimlessly shooting blanks in the dark, but a wilful certainty born out from the simple knowledge that his love for Dean meant that he would _always_ find a way to save him.

 _Always_.

This time it was simple.

He didn't even have to articulate the thought, simply thought of the Dean he wanted to get to and focused his will and he was back in the motel.

It was late but Dean and Sammy were still awake, although Sam seemed to have arrived just as Dean had finally decided it was time for bed. It was much later than it should have been and Sam realised that Dean had been keeping both himself and Sammy awake deliberately. It was possibly because he was so spooked now by the events of the day that he was too much on guard to be able to sleep, or even unwilling to allow it to happen. Sam could sympathise. It was a hunter's trait after all. It was difficult to let your guard down when you felt there was something there trying to get you. But every hunter needed to sleep and recharge if he or she expected to be fighting fit.

Except that in this case, sleeping and letting his guard down would be exactly when this particular threat was going to attack Dean.

Sam didn't dwell on that thought.

 _I'm here now Dean,_ he thought instead. _I won't let anything happen to you._

Dean put Sammy to bed first, bribing him with a concoction of hot milk with cocoa which, despite Sammy's protestations to the contrary, quickly had the desired effect. He hovered by Sammy's bed for a little while longer than normal, and Sam wondered what was going on in his mind. But before Sam could come up with a reasonable explanation, Dean dashed out to the kitchen, retuning with a box of salt. He semi-encircled both his and Sammy's bed with a thin line, stopping short at the walls. He mulled something over for a minute, before crawling under the beds and continuing the line along the wall to complete the shape.

He seemed content with this but kept the salt near the nightstand rather than returning it to the kitchen.

Obviously Dean had no way of knowing that the salt would make no difference, to either Sam or the Darona-Khab, but it was still a smart thing to have done. Smart and sad, and not for the first time, Sam again felt a twinge of sorrow for his brother who at age nine, should never have been worrying about such things.

Despite whatever Dean may or may not have intended, almost as soon as his head hit the pillow Dean was asleep, and Sam felt slightly guilty at the prospect he had lined up for the night ahead. His plan was to continuously wake Dean the moment he suspected that Dean was dreaming. It was far from a fool proof plan, but Sam didn't know what else to do. He might at least be able to wake him up enough times to prevent the Darona-Khab from infecting him in the first place. Sam knew Cas had said that that wasn't possible, but he couldn't not try. If nothing else, perhaps in those few moments when he was connected with Dean he would be able to communicate with him or send him a message somehow. He hadn't planned that far ahead, and for now all he could do was wait.

Sammy's nightmares at least had seemed to have abated, and he slept soundlessly.

Dean looked exhausted. A shaft of moonlight was breaking though the grimy window pane above his bed and lighting his face in a silvery, almost ghostly glow. The affect made him look slightly gaunt, accentuating the tiredness induced dark circles under his closed eyes. It not only made him look vulnerable, but was also shockingly reminiscent of the state in which Sam had left Dean in Cas' care. The image and thought sent a renewed wave of protectiveness surging through Sam and he moved in closer towards Dean.

About two hours or so into his sleep, Dean began stirring. It was 3 o'clock Sam noticed, the Devil's Hour according to some people and if you believed that, then it made sense that this would be when the Darona-Khab would be at its strongest.

At first Dean simply turned a few times in his sleep, so Sam wasn't sure if he was dreaming or not. He was mumbling something Sam couldn't make out so he moved closer, getting within earshot just as Dean repeated it.

"Mom."

Sam's heart sank.

For Dean, it hadn't even fully been five years since he had lost their mother. Of course he would still remember her. Of course the memories of her would still be with him, her absence echoing loud and clear throughout every empty corner in his life, reminding him of that loss, haunting him with its sorrow. Sam knew, despite all the years ahead, Dean would never, ever, recover from it. Her death had left a permanent fracture in his heart, the fissure running so deep, that it would never fully heal. Even after so many years had passed, that pain was still so intense for Dean as an adult, that Sam couldn't imagine what it would be like for Dean as a child.

"Mommy." He muttered again, not urgently but perhaps almost mournfully. "… _Please_ … don't leave me."

And Sam wanted to cry.

He didn't know if now was the time he should try to wake Dean. It didn't seem like a nightmare, but it clearly wasn't a pleasant dream either. Not for the first time anger surged up in him. Their father should have been here to take care of his son. Dean needed someone to comfort him and keep him safe and tell him it would be all right. Like Dean did for Sammy. Like any other parent should do for their child.

 _I'm here for you Dean,_ Sam urged, feeling impotent the instant he said it. Even if he woke Dean up, Sam wouldn't be able to comfort him. Not in the way Dean had been able to comfort Sammy. Dean would wake up to a dark and almost empty motel room, one that would only serve to remind him that his mother was dead and was never coming back.

Sam was still questioning what to do when Dean turned abruptly in his sleep, his movements suddenly more animated and eyelids fluttering.

"No… Sammy don't…" His tone was altogether more urgent this time.

 _Dean,_ Sam intoned. _Wake up._

It had no effect and Sam watched with rising alarm as Dean twisted again, turning his head from one side to the other and face contorting in fear or anger, Sam couldn't tell.

 _Focus! Sam, come on!_

" _No!_ " Dean said, more forcefully and all doubt and hesitation was erased from Sam's mind at the sound of his brother in such obvious distress. The desperation and urgency in that single word from his sleeping brother's lips tugged at something deep inside Sam and propelled him towards Dean before he could even have articulated that desire.

What Sam had been hoping was that he would jolt Dean awake.

What Sam hadn't been expecting, was that he would end up in Dean's nightmare.


	8. Chapter 8: Dream a Little Dream – part I

_**Chapter 8: Dream a Little Dream – part I**_

Their house.

He was standing outside their house.

The sky was an incredibly bright blue, with picture perfect fluffy white clouds floating in its endless azure expanse. The lawn leading up to the house seemed almost too vibrant a shade of green and the flower beds on either side of the path were bursting with vivid reds and yellows. A light breeze caught the air and moved through the leaves of the trees lining the edge of the property and a sprinkler lazily spiralled, dousing the grass with a cooling thin spray, some of which rose into the air, caught on the wind, and dispersed into a mist that held hints of rainbows in its haze.

Despite the inaccuracy of details and overly idealised perfection, for a moment Sam thought he had actually transplanted himself to the physical location. But he realised his mistake when he saw Dean, the 9 year old Dean, run up to the front door and, failing to gain entry that way, climb in through an open window and disappear into the house.

He knew that was impossible because they hadn't been back to the house in their childhood, and in the same moment he realised this, he understood that he must be in Dean's dream.

His heartbeat quickened. Whatever was going on, there could be nothing good in that house, especially if the Darona-Khab was prowling inside.

He made his way cautiously to the door and tried the handle, surprised when for him, it opened. He was about to step over the threshold when it occurred to him that he should follow in Dean's footsteps exactly. Leaving the door ajar, he moved towards the half open window and climbed in as he had seen Dean doing so just seconds earlier.

In contrast to the idyllic brightness of the day outside, when he folded his large frame in through the window, the interior that greeted him was shrouded in darkness. On instinct he turned abruptly back towards the window, but not only was it now firmly shut and immovable, but the scene outside had changed completely.

Where brightness had reigned only moments ago, now there was a desolate and barren dark landscape stretching out into the edges of a lightless horizon. Gone were the cotton white angel beds, replaced now by formidable storm clouds, churning with far too much speed than could naturally be possible, racing across a deep indigo sky while a soundless gale raged across the immediate landscape, leaving in its wake an upturned windswept disorder where there had once been such manicured precision.

And there, on the edge of the scene, just barely within the scope of his vision, Sam thought he saw something flit along the boundary of the property. A dark silhouette that was somehow darker than the backdrop it ran against and that was gone before he could be certain. Something lean and monstrously tall with long sharp talons at the end of elongated limbs and razor sharp teeth that glinted white for an instant as lightening streaked across the dark quilted sky, before it was all lost to the darkness again.

Despite knowing this was a dream, and not even his own, a sliver of fear rippled through Sam. He needed to find Dean.

Turning back into the house, he realised any hopes he may have harboured of being able to orientate himself from memory had been foolishly optimistic. The internal layout was not accurate, but what did he expect? This place was in a nine year olds dreamscape, born out of fragmented recollections and desperately clung to memories that were as faded and incomplete as torn up sepia photographs.

"Dean?" he called out, surprising himself with the sound of his own voice; it felt like an age since he'd had one.

He could make out a long corridor leading away from him, running alongside a set of stairs. Ground floor first he decided, but as he moved away from the window, he realised the interior had subtly changed around him. It was nothing he could immediately pinpoint, other than the window he had been looking through just seconds ago, having now completely disappeared, leaving nothing but a cold brick wall behind him. It didn't matter how, and it didn't have to make sense; it was a dream after all, and he suspected nothing here would be reliable or obey the laws of logic or reason.

He moved tentatively forward, wishing he had some kind of weapon and then re-remembering in the same moment that _this was a dream_ and that it probably wouldn't make any difference.

Still. Old habits. He was a hunter after all.

He was half way down the corridor when he heard something scuttle through a room to his side and caught movement from the corner of his eye.

"Dean?" He called out again, changing direction, only to enter a room that became endlessly long before his very eyes, disappearing into the distance to a pinpoint of infinite darkness. He was hesitant to step further; infinity seemed a big place to get lost in. But what if Dean was in there?

Just as he cautiously took a step, something brushed past behind him and he spun around. This time he was sure he had seen something, some _one_ , running down the hallway, and he gave chase.

He came to an abrupt stop at the end of the corridor, where the hallway opened up into a kitchen. Despite the darkness, he knew immediately, instinctively, that the child standing there was Dean. The back door was wide open and a dark shadowy figure loomed in its cavity.

It was their father, John Winchester, but some trick of the dream world seemed to be elongating his frame even as Sam watched, till he seemed so incredibly big and tall that even Sam felt dwarfed in his presence. He cast a long dark shadow across the room and only his eyes seemed to glint in the darkness he created. Sam tried to move but realised he was frozen in place. He called out to his father, but John didn't seem to be aware of Sam at all, his focus instead aimed down to the small figure of Dean who stood in front of him. He placed a shotgun into Deans hands, and then on top of that, a large box of salt.

"Remember everything I've told you." He intoned, as he placed yet more items on his son. "Don't forget any of it."

"Dad wait, I don't-"

"If it's not a moonlit night, you can't see them coming." He carried on, ignoring Dean's protest. Another gun was placed in Dean's increasingly laden arms.

"Dad stop. I can't–"

"You need to know the lore Dean, or you'll never learn how you'll die. Don't you want to know how you die?" And he placed a book that was far too large on to the pile in Dean's arms. Dean grappled with the load, but it was now higher than he stood and it toppled, the items scattering across the floor. John shook his head.

"You need to learn how they kill you Dean. You need to look after Sammy. If you lose him…" He left the sentence incomplete, shaking his head and looking down at his son.

Dean was scrambling on the floor, trying to collect the items that kept slipping from his reach and that seemed to be multiplying even as Sam watched. Tears that Dean frantically wiped at with his arm kept streaming down his face and his breath was ragged. Their father shook his head again, sadly.

"Have you lost your brother Dean?" Dean's head shot up to face John's accusation, a new sort of horror creeping into Dean's tearstained features, the fear quelling his tears momentarily.

"No... I… No Dad I thought –"

"You had one job Dean. I left him with you and you've lost him haven't you? You've let him get hurt."

"No Dad!" Dean's voice broke and he sobbed, but their father continued.

"They come from everywhere. You know that by now don't you? You'll never see them coming Dean. That's when you'll die. You'll burn just like your mother. Is that what you want? Is it Dean?"

"No sir!"

"She died screaming. Did you know that Dean? She screamed while she burned. Is that what you want to happen to you? To _Sam_?"

"No!"

"Then make sure to say the spell backwards and shoot it three times in the heart. Stab it son! Stab it! Get real close and stab it in the heart son! And then remember to add salt to the water when it's holy and dipped in blood to burn the bones. Otherwise they just come back for you. They'll always come back for you."

"I can't… I don't remem–"

But their father had already turned away and was stepping out through the door, before pausing to turn back towards Dean. He tilted his head to one side as if considering something, and then crouched down to get closer to Dean's level. He placed a large, long nailed hand on Dean's shoulder and looked at him gravely.

"I won't be coming back this time Dean. It's just you now."

"Dad no!"

"And if something happens to Sammy, remember son–", his teeth momentarily glinted white in the moonlight as he leaned in close, catching Dean's eyes and locking him in an intense gaze. "It's all your fault."

And with that he stood and left. Dean immediately gave chase but even as Sam watched, horrified, Dean seemed incapable of reaching the door, while their father seemed to cover impossible lengths of ground in single strides.

" _DAD!_ No! Please Dad! Don't leave me! _DAD!_ " Dean was screaming, his throat sounding as though it were ripping through his sobs. But John was already lost to the darkness outside and Dean, deflated and distraught, simply sank back down to his knees, burying his face in his hands and cried.

Sam couldn't believe what he'd just seen, that their father could just turn his back on his son like that. It was only after a moment when the shock of it had ebbed away that he realised this wasn't their father. Perhaps it had been the Darona-Khab or perhaps just Dean's projection of dormant anxiety and fear, but their father had never been the monster he had just seen.

Dean was a small shape, curled up with his back against the cupboards, arms wrapped around his pulled up knees and head bowed down, face buried.

Outside, a shadow moved in the distance.

Sam needed to get to his brother. He tried to move, but felt glued in place.

"Dean?" He called out, but Dean didn't respond. Sam closed his eyes, fighting his frustration and fear.

 _I can control this_ , he reminded himself. _I need to focus and conquer this. Dean_ _ **needs**_ _me._

And with that thought, he began to slowly regain movement. It was excruciating, like trying to sprint through a river of treacle, but eventually fluidity returned and he strode the last few strides quickly across the floor to crouch down in front of his brother.

"Dean." He whispered gently, not even sure his brother would hear him.

But Dean's head shot up, red rimmed puffy eyes immediately narrowing and posture assuming a defensive edge.

"Who are you?" He demanded, tears momentarily forgotten.

"Hey!" Was all that Sam managed to respond with, surprised and relieved in equal measure. "Hey it's okay. I'm a friend."

But the fight left Dean as quickly as it had entered, and he slumped back down, clearly too worn out at that moment to care whether or not Sam was a threat. His lip quivered. Sam couldn't help but react to that.

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay." He soothed. "It's gonna be okay."

"My dad left." Dean blurted out.

Sam shook his head. "He'll be back."

But Dean was shaking his head in adamant denial. "No. He said this time he won't come back." Dean took a deep steadying breath. "Because he said I lost my brother. So… So now I'm alone… And he's not coming back." He finished, his voice breaking and even as he looked to meet Sam's gaze, almost defiantly, tears slipped from his eyes despite his attempt to rally himself and he looked away quickly, embarrassed, biting down on his lip angrily as the tears continued to fall.

It was all the spur Sam needed and far more than he could bear. Without even thinking how Dean would react, Sam pulled him in towards himself, wrapping his arms around him and holding him in a tight hug. The guarded stiffness in Dean's posture, whether born from surprise or habit, remained for a moment more before finally seeming to melt away as the last of his defences fell and when they did, Dean buried his head into Sam's shoulder and cried. His whole body shook as years of sorrow bled out and he held on to Sam as though he would drown in it if he didn't, as if Sam were his lifeline.

Dean never cried like this. It broke Sam's heart in a million different ways, because Dean never cried like this.

And Sam knew this was a dream and this was different, _Dean_ was different, but even so, _it hurt_. In every corner of his being, in every beat and pulse through his heart, every thought and synapse firing emotions through his head, every silent sob that racked through Dean's body and shook them both, _it hurt_.

This was pent up sorrow and despair, exaggerated in the dream and because it was a dream it would be easy to say it wasn't real. But it _was_ real, perhaps more real than anything, because this was everything inside of him, inside Dean. Every sorrow that had touched him, every splinter of pain that had lodged in his heart, every shard of fear that had pierced his mind, every secret he kept hidden deep in his soul. This was everything Dean kept under control, guarded and buried inside where no one else could ever see and from where it could never be released anywhere but here. This was what Dean carried alone.

So Sam gripped him even tighter and let him cry.

He didn't know how long they stayed like that, but it seemed to Sam that even in this dream world, Dean regained his composure remarkably quickly.

When he finally pushed away from Sam, he kept his hands on Sam's shoulders and looked him in the eye. It was as though he were trying to gage something, to measure some quality inside him, and Sam let him make his quiet assessment, trying his best not to squirm under the scrutiny. Even a young, dream state Dean, was intensely perceptive and aware. Even a young, dream state Dean, was someone Sam didn't want to disappoint.

He finally seemed to come to a conclusion, and with a final sniff and gulp, he straighten, somehow growing taller by a few inches, and seeming to look older for it. Even as Sam watched, he saw a hard resilience unfurl in Dean and it almost threw Sam with its unflinching tenacity.

"My brother, Sammy, he's missing." Dean said. "I'm going to find him… Will you help me?"

And so, even after everything, it was still Sam, still Sammy, who could refocus and orientate Dean through any kind of personal trauma. Sam felt humbled and overwhelmed all at once. "I'll do whatever you need."

A tiny hint of a sad smile ghosted over Dean's features and he nodded, approving, before moving away from Sam to start gathering up the guns and salt.

Sam was about to suggest that they didn't need them, but it occurred to him that he didn't know what effect it would have on the Darona Khab. It also occurred to him that Dean didn't realise that this was a dream.

He considered telling him the truth about that, but then disregarded that notion. What good would it do, he reasoned. It wouldn't lessen the threat of the Darona Khab and it might potentially run the risk of actually alienating him from Dean if Dean didn't believe him. Sam had come into this wanting to wake Dean up but now that he was here, he realised he might actually be able to do what Cas had suggested all along; help Dean to confront the creature and bind it with the Enochian spell. All he needed to do was stay with Dean long enough for the creature to manifest itself. Given what he'd already seen, that didn't seem like it would be a problem.

Dean's shoving a shotgun in his hands startled him back from his reverie.

"Are you a hunter?" Dean was asking.

"Uh… Yeah." Sam replied, hefting the gun, checking the chambers, leaning down to his side to pick up the rounds whilst still sitting on the floor.

"Did you ever hunt with my dad?"

"Yeah I did… Actually…" Sam bit his lip. Could he really lie to Dean? He took a deep breath. "Actually your Dad asked me to stay here and look out for you… For you and your brother."

"My dad said that?" Dean asked, stopping what he was doing to look at Sam. Sam nodded, hoping he could fool Dean as effortlessly as Dean could fool Sammy. Dean regarded him for a moment more, and Sam tried to convey the confidence his adult status should have inherently afforded.

"Yeah." Sam reinforced. "He said there was something trying to get in the house and that we had to stop it."

"You must be good then," Dean said finally. "If you meet my Dad's standards." Then his features changed to convey a look that Sam couldn't readily identify on his brother's face. Worry? Fear? Shame? "I can't… I can't hunt anything yet." Dean said. "I'm not good enough. And…" He looked away, suddenly openly embarrassed, sneaking a glance back at Sam as if to check what he might be thinking. "And hunters aren't supposed to get scared, are they?"

"Every hunter gets scared Dean. It's okay." Sam reassured. But it somehow backfired on him as Dean didn't seem convinced at all.

"My dad doesn't get scared." Dean retorted, defiantly, eyeing Sam now with renewed scrutiny and open suspicion.

Sam, who was about to respond by saying of course he did, managed to bite his tongue just in time. Had he really forgotten who he was talking to? Rule number one for befriending Dean Winchester; never, _ever_ , criticize his family.

Dean was still watching him and Sam felt Dean's defences starting to go up.

"Right." Sam replied casually, reaching for another shotgun shell that lay near his knee. "Right, of course. But your dad's a _proper_ hunter. I meant hunter's in training. Of course _they_ get scared." He stole a glance at Dean, wondering if he was buying it. "I used to get scared too, when I was your age, still learning to hunt."

"You _did_?" Dean was considering this, as though not sure he could believe it. As though no one had ever told him it was acceptable to be afraid.

"Sure I did. When I was a kid I used to be scared of all sorts of things. Werewolves, Wendigos, Vampires." He waved his arm out as if the gesture encompassed every monster there could be. When he looked back at Dean he couldn't help smiling. "But I had this great older brother who was always watching out for me. I knew he'd never let me get hurt."

Dean swallowed. "I'm not supposed to let Sammy get hurt." He said in a voice so sad and small it broke Sam's heart all over again.

"And you won't." Sam reassured him. "We'll find him and he'll be fine. You'll see."

Dean looked away, but Sam reached out to gently hold his chin and turn his face back towards his own, then placed his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Hey?" He waited for Dean to meet his gaze, which when he did, was done almost shyly, furtively, as though he were afraid Sam might call him out on something. "You're a really awesome big brother Dean. You need to know that. You won't let Sammy down, I can tell. I have an awesome big brother who's _just_ like you, so I would know, right?"

Dean wavered, looked down at his feet, then gave a begrudging half shrug, mumbling something that Sam didn't quite catch but took to be an _'I guess'_.

"And it's all right to be afraid sometimes Dean. You're allowed. It doesn't make you weak, it makes you _normal_."

Dean bit his lip, almost convinced but still not sure.

"Besides, you're not alone. I'm here and I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, you understand? _Anything_. You gotta trust me on that… Just like your Dad trusted me to be here, to help you. It's like you said yourself, I must be good for your dad to send me… 'Course I'm not as good he is, but-" Sam ducked his head down to catch Dean's gaze again, risking a grin he hoped conveyed confidence. "I'm not far off either."

And it was the open praise for their father that finally did it, as Sam had known it would. Dean took a deep breath as if to regain himself and nodded, resolve returning. "OK. Okay, let's go find Sammy."

"Good." Sam nodded, letting go of Dean to finally stand to full height. He didn't notice the blink and wide-eyed look on Dean's face until Dean spoke again.

"Jeez dude! What did you _do_? Pop a load of Gigantor pills or something?"

It wasn't like Sam hadn't heard remarks like that before, just that right then it was the last thing he'd been expecting. He realised belatedly that to a nine year old Dean, Sam really would seem huge. It brought a grin to his face to hear the cocky, smart ass remark from his brother; it echoed a semblance of something Sam more readily recognised as Dean.

"Yeah. I'll lend you some, stumpy." Sam shot back, and although Dean tried to scowl, Sam caught the grin on his face as he turned away.

As they gathered the last of the weapons, stowing them in a sack which Sam slung over his shoulder, he noticed the room was much lighter now. Still not sunlit or bright, but no longer as ominously foreboding as it had been earlier. That made sense he supposed, surmising that since this was Dean's dream it would make sense for it to react to Dean's emotional climate, which as it had improved, would be reflected in the atmosphere.

But, he realised suddenly with a sickening jolt, therein lay a problem. A really big problem.

Recalling what Cas had said, the Darona-Khab infected bad dreams, nightmares, not normal, good dreams. If Sam calmed Dean too much, the dream would no longer be a nightmare, and the Darona-Khab would no longer appear. He couldn't use that to his advantage; Dean was definitely going to get infected, one way or another. Cas had warned him that there was no changing that. Perhaps it had already begun, perhaps the image in the doorway in the guise of their father had really been the Darona-Khab, already beginning its ensnarement. There was no way Sam could be sure, not enough to risk Dean's life.

A knot twisted in Sam's stomach as the dominoes fell and the implications sank in. He watched Dean looking around the kitchen for anything they may have missed. His demeanour was calmer, more confident, and Sam felt sick with the realisation that he would not only have to prevent it from flourishing, but might actually need to knock down the confidence and fragile security that he had just helped to create.

"That's everything I think." Dean noted with a hint of reluctance in his voice. He looked over at Sam and gave a lopsided shrug. "I guess we better move, huh?"

Sam could tell from the flicker in Dean's eyes that he was hoping Sam would counter that with something reassuring, perhaps suggest that Sammy was already safe somehow, or even suggest that Dean didn't need to come with him after all and that he, Sam, would rescue Sammy alone. If this had been any normal situation, there would have been no way in heaven or hell Sam would have recruited a _child_ to be his hunting partner, even if that child was Dean. But this wasn't a normal situation, and as much as Sam wanted to comfort Dean, he knew it was the last thing he could do.

"Yeah… But you better lead the way, you know this house better than I do." And the words felt like bile and ichor on his tongue but even as he spat them out he wanted nothing more than to take them back. Wanted with every instinct in him to just gather Dean up in his arms, hide his head so he wouldn't see the bad things and just run out the door. Which was ludicrous of course because this was Dean's head and there were probably worse monsters lurking in every corner and it was all a dream any way and none of it was real, but God help him he wished, he _wished_ he could rescue his brother, hide him away from all of it, stow him away somewhere and save him from all the years to come.

But instead he just waited.

Deans shoulders drooped ever so slightly for the smallest fraction of a second, betraying his dismay, and the room darkened by a perceptible degree in response. But then Dean, the hunter as ever, straightened, toughened, and gave a curt nod, either in response to Sam or some internal debate that he had bullied himself into resolving.

"Right…. Yeah. Okay, this way."

Dean led them out from the kitchen, Sam allowing him to set the pace while he trailed closely behind. The house was lit dimly as though from unseen candlelight, leaving dark corners and edges all around them as they cautiously made their way along the corridor. Perhaps something in the darkness seemed to ripple and churn, perhaps every now and then something they couldn't quite be sure of scuttled close by their feet. Or perhaps it was all just a trick of Dean's mind. It was not pleasant, whatever the cause.

Dean came to a stop at the foot of the stairs. "Up there." He said, motioning with a quick jerk of his head to indicate the way. He reached out for the banister, but as his small hand rested there, it faltered, knuckles growing white as his grip tightened. He didn't move, even though his eyes were darting up the stairs.

"What?" Sam asked, following his gaze, thinking perhaps Dean had seen or heard something, then realising Dean hadn't answered. "Dean?" He prompted. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Dean shook his head, as if to say 'nothing', but he couldn't commit to the bluff and he didn't even try. This was a Dean still too young to have learned the finely honed brand of emotional camouflage that the older Dean Winchester wore so well. There was something honest and still innocent in this Dean. The older Dean, Sam's Dean, was adept at comedic deflection, but this Dean, Sammy's Dean, was raw and vulnerable. He didn't hide his fear, or hadn't yet learned how to. He wore it openly, honestly, without even knowing. He would in time learn differently, Sam knew, but for now, in that moment, it didn't even occur to Dean to try hide it and Sam wanted nothing more than to comfort him for that. Instead, he simply prodded him further, loathing himself with every syllable.

"What's up there Dean?"

"…Bad things."

"What bad things?"

"It's… It'll be my Mom…. And Sammy. They're up there. They're always up there… And..."

"…And what?"

"…. There's something else."

"What? What do you think is up there?"

Dean turned on him at that, unexpected resentment flashing defensively behind his hazel eyes.

"I don't _think_ , I know. I _know_ there's a fire monster up there. And don't try and tell me there isn't, because I _know_."

"Dean–"

"I'm not stupid!" Dean cut him off, shouting, suddenly angry and fuelled by it. "The councillors looked at me like I was stupid when I told them, but they don't know what I know. I _know_ monsters are real! And I _know_ how my mom died, I know she's up there. She _burned_. My dad told me monsters are real and I've seen pictures and I know how many monsters there are and I know there's a monster up there made of fire and it killed my mom and it's gonna kill my brother and it's gonna kill me, so don't tell me there's no such thing because _I'M NOT STUPID!_ "

Dean's eyes brimmed with tears but he clamped his mouth shut, his jaw firm and jutting out as if challenging Sam, as if wanting a fight. Because he did, Sam could see that, could feel it, the desire for reckless violence, the need to lash out, to punch. To scream. To fight. To hurt and be hurt. But this was a child's anger and Sam understood it for what it really masked; fear. He chose his words carefully, knowing he had to keep Dean dreaming a nightmare.

"I get it Dean, trust me I do. And you're probably right, there probably is a monster up there. But… isn't that what we're here for? I mean, we're hunters. _You're_ a hunter."

Dean shook his head. "I don't want to be a hunter. I hate it! I hate all of it. I just… I wish I could leave, you know? Or I wish my dad would stop. I wish we could just be normal. I don't want to do this for the rest of my life! I want… I mean, what if I wanna do something else? Like what if I wanna be a Nascar driver or a firefighter or I don't know, _anything_ else. What if _Sam_ wants something else? He's too smart to be doing this crap, he could do anything... But it's like we'll be stuck like this forever coz it's what we do and I hate it." He swallowed, voice dropping to a whisper as his eyes fell with it, avoiding Sam's gaze as though ashamed of the secrets he'd revealed about himself. "But if Sam did leave I'd be all alone and… I don't wanna be alone. And… And I'm so tired of being afraid… I wish I wasn't so afraid. And I wish this was just a dream and I would wake up and Mom and Dad would be there, happy, and Sammy would be safe… But it isn't. And even if it was, it'd be worse when I wake up 'cause Mom's dead and Dad's sad all the time and I'm not strong enough to keep Sammy safe and I worry about him so much man, like _all the time_. And monsters are real and I have to learn to fight them because that's our job but I'm so scared of them and I'm scared they'll get my Dad and I won't be able to protect my brother and I hate it."

What could Sam say to that? He had no words. Apart from the protection angle he could have been talking to himself at around that age, when he'd been trying to come to terms with their big family secret and had been crying himself to sleep more often than not, afraid that something was coming to kill him, wishing he could just step into another life. Anything but the one they had. Dean had been there for him, and Sam remembered all the things, all the times, Dean had tried and succeeded in comforting him. He'd hammered those reassurances into him with such repetitive certainty that they had become true and even now, after so many years, he could hear Dean in his head, telling him everything he needed to hear. Before he even knew it, Sam was talking, feeling Dean's words spilling from his lips as if recalling a mantra he believed so fully, he could resurrect and recite its spirit even in sleep.

"I know that this, all of this, is big. _Huge_ even. But we have to do this. We _have_ to go up there and we _have_ to fight the monster, because that's what we do. We save people. We hunt things. And yeah it seems scary and terrifying, because it _is_. But you know what's bigger? Scarier? Your dad. Me. And you too Dean. No, I mean it. You might not feel like it, you might feel like you can't do this, but I _know_ you can. You know why? Because you're a big brother Dean. You'll always be a big brother. You're awesome at it. And you're not alone in this man, I'll be right there with you, all the way. I'm not gonna let anything hurt you."

Dean shook his head, still not looking at Sam. "But…. Why can't I stop being afraid? If I'm so awesome, why can't I be brave? Like Dad…" And then he did look at Sam, his eyes betraying big well pools of desperation and anguish so deep, they tore at Sam's heart in ways he couldn't even explain. "Like you."

"You _are_ brave Dean. Braver than anyone…." But Dean shook his head again and Sam knew he was losing him. His mind raced. What would Dean have done? Dean would have known how to reach him. Dean would have known how to talk to a kid. And again, Dean's voice was in his head, conversations late at night, stories told in the darkness, comforting Sam who'd clung to them as though they'd been some kind of holy truths that would shield him from pain and protect him if he believed enough.

"It's like…." He began as the spark suddenly lit. "Like with Batman, when Bruce falls down into the cave and he's surrounded by bats and he's terrified, d'you remember? And you remember how scared he is? It's his nightmare. But he confronts it, because he _has_ to. Because he's gonna be a superhero, just like your Dad is. That's what hero's do Dean. They get scared but they face it. If you're not afraid of anything, it just means you'll never be brave. You... my brother taught me that. And I _know_ you're brave Dean. I know it. And I know you can do this because being afraid isn't what defines you. It's how you react to it that makes you strong. And you're so strong Dean. You're gonna be stronger than I ever will be, I can see that. I _know_ that. You're gonna be a superhero just like Batman. Just like your Dad. So you have to do this. _We_ have to do this. We _have_ to go get your brother. And I _promise_ you, I won't let anything hurt you up there. But you _have_ to do this."

Sam couldn't tell if he'd gotten through, was still trying to think of something else he could say, still trying to resist the urge to reach out and comfort Dean, when Dean took a deep wavering breath. When he raised his head, it was the resolute, brave Dean Winchester that met Sam's gaze, his young, sad eyes carrying glimmers of an inner strength that most grown men, living their lives in selfish meekness, would never achieve.

"I want to be strong." He said slowly, as if working something out, as if needing to be sure he meant every word he said. "I can be, for Sammy. I want to be a hero for him. I have to be, don't I?" He shook his head, "He's just a kid; he needs me. I'm his big brother, I have to keep him safe. That's my job." He clenched and unclenched his jaw, then nodded. "I _will_ keep him safe. I will."

"I know." Sam whispered, fighting against the lump that had formed in his throat.

Dean looked back up the length of the stairs into the darkness beyond. "I'm gonna do this… I… I can do this. For Sammy."

Sam didn't trust his voice not to hitch and betray him if he spoke, so all he did was nod.

Dean took a tentative step up, hand still gripping the railing, and the stairwell darkened a little. Sam couldn't help placing a hand on Dean's shoulder to let him know he wasn't alone as they made their way cautiously upwards.

"I've seen pictures of burnt bodies you know. And of my Mom." Dean stated suddenly, matter of fact-ly. "So I know what she'll look like. I know what to expect."

Sam was shocked. "What? How? Where?"

Dean shrugged, turning his head slightly as if to look over his shoulder, but his eyes never left the landing at the top of the stairs. "I snuck into a library once, found a book with pictures in it. And… And I found the police report in my Dad's things, the report about my Mom. It… it had pictures of her… after. Of her dead… I just needed to know what happened to her. I needed to see for myself."

"Dean… I…" But what could Sam say to that? He had no words, and had never even known that such a report had existed let alone that Dean had seen it. But of course their mom's death would have been investigated, and of course there would have been photos in the police report, the coroner's report. It had just never, ever, occurred to Sam to ask about it. With the work they did Sam had obviously seen enough horrific images in his life to be able to imagine what those reports must have depicted, but to know that Dean had seen them, and at such a young age, the shock of it didn't seem to fully register with him and he couldn't muster a response.

"But listen!" Dean said suddenly, urgently, this time turning fully on the step to face Sam, making him start. "You can't tell Sammy, OK? He doesn't know how our mom died. We don't tell him coz he's too young. He'd have nightmares. Besides, he doesn't remember, not like me." Dean was eyeing him earnestly and Sam nodded falteringly, agreeing to the charade, still too stunned to manage much else.

Assured of his complicity, Dean turned back and resumed his slow progress, startling Sam afresh when he spoke again.

"You're easy to talk to, you know. I don't normally have anyone to talk to about stuff." He laughed nervously, then continued hastily. "Not that I need to talk about stuff like I'm a chick or something. Jeez! I swear man, I'm not hitting on you or being weird or anything! It's just … I mean … It's pretty cool, hunting with you." He glanced a hesitant look back over his shoulder at Sam. "It's like we're friends... or something. You know? Like… Like I can trust you."

"You can. And yeah, we are. Friends I mean. So you can tell me anything."

Dean nodded and bit his lip. "I don't have many. Not that I need them... I mean I've got Dad and Sammy. But Dad's always so serious, and Sammy's too young. He's smart, don't get me wrong. Smarter than me anyway, but he's still just a kid. And he doesn't know about this stuff, so I can't tell him… But it's kinda cool, talking to you… Although…" and even from behind, Sam could sense the grin on Dean's face. "You're pretty old too you know."

Sam wanted to say something, but he didn't trust himself to speak, so he just grinned back. Then Dean stopped again. He was quiet long enough for Sam to begin asking him what was wrong, when Dean turned back towards him, face solemn and serious once more, talking quickly as if to speak before he changed his mind.

"You know, when we finish this, this hunt I mean, and get Sam back, maybe you could stick around for a while? I mean, you're Dad's friend so I'm guessing maybe he wouldn't mind? And I could share a bed with Sammy so you'd have your own bed. And I can cook and stuff … You think maybe you might stay for a bit?" And he was so hopeful and so eager and the loneliness in him was so desperate that the nod and yes promise escaped from Sam before he even knew what he was doing. How the hell would Dean feel when he woke up and Sam, this dream version of him wasn't there? Wasn't real? Sam just hoped Dean wouldn't remember any of this the next morning.

As if he'd caught a twisted tail end of what Sam had been thinking, Dean started talking again as he turned to continue upward.

"I remember bits and pieces from that night you know. The night mom died. More than Sammy, he doesn't remember anything… But I do."

"Like what? What do you remember?"

"Like… Like I remember the heat. The smoke. Sometimes I think I remember Mom screaming but I'm not sure. I think I might just remember that part wrong. I remember I woke up and I knew something was wrong, and I went out into the corridor and it was really hot and it was hard to breathe. And then Dad handed Sammy to me and told me to take him outside. He was scared, my Dad I mean. I don't think I'd ever seen him scared before and so I knew something really bad must have happened. And I wanted to stay with him but I knew I had to take care of Sammy, to get him somewhere safe, so I ran. I remember it was smoky and I couldn't see and I thought I was gonna get lost in the house for some reason, like I wouldn't find my way out. And then when I was outside it felt like I was standing there for ages and I thought Dad might not come. And Sammy was crying and I couldn't get him to stop even though I was trying to make him feel better. And my arms started hurting from holding him even though he was really tiny back then… He was so small, he couldn't even talk yet, he just cried; I was worried maybe he was cold or hurt or something. And then when Dad finally came out, he was alone so I knew Mom was dead." Dean stopped and shuddered, and the whole house seemed to reverberate with him. "It was… It was horrible. The worst thing ever. The worst night of my life. I'd do anything to keep Sammy from ever knowing about it. About any of it."

"I know." Sam whispered, not sure if Dean had heard him.

"I… I worry sometimes you know?"

"About what?"

"I don't know... I guess… I guess I worry that I'll forget what Mom was like. I think… I think if I do, then she'll be gone for good you know? Sammy doesn't remember her at all. And Dad doesn't really talk about her much. So if I forget, then I'll lose her forever. And if I can't remember her, Sammy will feel like he never even _had_ a mom. He won't know anything about her. I know it sounds stupid, and I know I get angry at him when he asks about her, I can't help it. But if I keep trying to remember her, then at least she's still kinda around you know?… Except… I worry I've forgotten her sometimes. And if I forget, how will Sammy ever know? And he _has_ to know, coz our Mom was awesome. She was the coolest. She used to say that Sammy, Dad and me, we were the most important things in the world to her. She always loved us. Family was everything to her. She told me. So we _have_ to stay together, we have to be a family. It's what she wanted. I'll do anything to keep us together. To keep us safe. To keep Sammy safe… Coz I think Dad gets tired of doing it alone sometimes, so I have to start stepping up and helping out more. I have to be strong."

It was the most Dean had ever spoken to Sam about anything, the most open he'd ever been, and Sam didn't know how to respond. He suspected the tumbling outpouring was done almost in oblivion to him, as if Dean had been talking to himself, to calm himself and distract himself from his fears.

Whether it had worked or not, whether it mattered or not, whether Sam could have responded with something that Dean's honesty deserved, it was all left irrelevant at the sound of an ear-piercing scream that ripped through the house. The silence it left in its wake seemed as loud and horrific as the scream had been shrill and Sam didn't know which was worse. As if triggered by the sound, dark thick smoke began rolling downward, slinking over the steps and pooling around their feet.

Sam could feel a sudden heat all around, as if the walls were slowly burning, and he smelled something in the air, thick and rancid, cloying to the back of his throat, making him want to retch.

This is just a dream, Sam told himself. Just a dream. But he couldn't repress the fear that shivered its way through his spine.

"Be careful." Dean whispered. "We're getting close."

By now they were at the top of the stairs, and as absurd as it was Sam couldn't help the knee jerk reaction of looking towards Dean as if seeking direction or guidance or, frustratingly, _permission_ even before advancing ahead.

The look that met his gaze however was instantly sobering, causing Sam to immediately clear his countenance and don a mask of made-up certainty, the one he reserved for victims and innocents, but hardly ever had to wear for Dean's benefit. Because this Dean was a child, he reminded himself. This Dean hadn't yet had the life experiences to generate the self-assured, dependable security Sam was so used to drawing from his brother. This Dean hadn't yet been broken and re-forged a hundred times over by all the exacting demands and drill sergeant mantras their father would drum into him, over and over again so relentlessly they would eventually fuse with his being like a resilient armour, like dragon scales, incapable of being shed unless he was at his dying ebb and even then, not fully.

In contrast to _his_ Dean, _this_ Dean was looking to him, to Sam, for that reassurance, to supply that certainty and strength, and suddenly Sam felt the full weight of that provision fall squarely on his shoulders. So this was what it was like to be the big brother? Having to keep a game face on and convince the world and your closest that you knew exactly what you were doing, even if on the inside you were as lost as the rest? Maybe more lost than any because after all, who led the leader? Who lit your path for you through the darkness of uncertainty, while all eyes waited on you for your next step? No one. Was this how his Dean felt? Even after so many years, Sam couldn't answer that because even after so many years if it _was_ all an act, Sam still fell for it more often than he probably should, more often than he probably knew.

Looking at Dean, seeing how young and scared he was, and feeling the overwhelmingly protective ache that made him want to instinctively reach out and pull Dean in close, Sam suddenly knew without question that if the roles had been reversed, if he had been the older brother, his need to protect and shelter Dean no matter what the cost would always outweigh the need to share that burden with him. It would never matter how old Dean got. It would never matter how strong he became. To him, he would always be younger, more precious, more valued. If it had been his role from youth, to protect this person who would always be the younger one in his eyes, he would never be able to retire from that responsibility no matter how capable the other ever became.

He understood that now. In a way that he had never been able to fathom before, he understood it now. As infuriating as it was to be on the receiving end of that protection and pretence, he finally began to empathise with his brother's inability to ever be able to rescind from that responsibility.

But now, that role was his, and he squared his shoulders up to it, wanting to live up to everything Dean had been, everything he had learned from Dean to expect that role to entail. To be everything Dean had always been for him.

Dean was still looking at him, chewing on his bottom lip and even though he was trying to put on a brave face, Sam could see he was afraid. But for his own good, Sam couldn't reassure him.

"Which way Dean?" He prompted instead, trying to sound as calm and confident as he could pretend to be.

Dean answered with a nod of his head, indicating towards a door at the far end of the corridor.

"Okay. Let's go. You lead the way, I'm right behind you."

Dean nodded, knife in one hand, gun in the other, yet neither seeming to fit in his grasp as comfortably as they should. They made their way cautiously along, the smoke continuing to thicken and rise with the heat. It was murky, dark, hot, and then, up ahead, something disturbed the smoke and they both froze.

A dark shape, grotesquely tall, sharp white teeth and talons glinting through the darkness, stood, slightly crookedly, watching them. Then it was gone, so swiftly that had it not been for the smoke swirling and rushing in to fill the hollow void it had left in its wake, they could have convinced themselves there had been nothing there.

"That was it wasn't it?" Dean whispered, his heartbeat almost echoing audibly through the house. "That's the thing that's got Sammy."

But before Sam could respond, Dean was off, running down the length of the corridor and disappearing into the smoke.


	9. Chapter 9: Dream a Little Dream –part II

_**Chapter 9: Dream a Little Dream – part II**_

" _Dean!_ "

It was as if Sam's panicked cry was left hanging in the air as he chased after him, coming to a stop at the door. He reached for the handle only to have his hand singed with the heat that seemed to radiate from the white hot door knob.

"Dean! Hold on I'm coming!" He wrapped his shirt around the handle and shouldered his weight into the door, flying through and barrelling straight into Dean, ending up sprawled on the floor beside him. Even as he tried to say his brother's name again, the smoke rose up and chocked him as flames he hadn't seen until now danced at the edges of the room. Dean was frozen in place, terrified, and Sam followed his gaze to the far end of the room.

There, barely a few meters away, was the sight that had Dean so transfixed. A figure, charred and burnt, in places still burning, its grotesquely contorted flesh melting away in patches to reveal a smouldering skeleton underneath. Something so horrific and sickening that all Sam wanted to do was turn away, and yet he couldn't, because despite all that, Sam knew instantly that it was their mother and he felt as frozen as his brother, watching in horror as the figure writhed in pain, the mouth snarling wide in an agonising scream that never came. The only thing untouched by the flames was the long blonde hair, and it seemed to swirl in the air around her head, as though lifted by unseen waves and eddies. Her eyes darted across the room as if searching for something, until they finally came to rest on Dean. Her face twisted into a sneer then, lips pulling back to reveal sharp, jagged teeth. But just as Sam thought she would lunge for them, for Dean, her face changed, calmed, and with a sickening jolt Sam realised it was the creature, wearing their mother's face somehow. She, it, tilted its head and smiled again.

"Deeeean." She hissed.

That was not their mother's voice, Sam knew instantly, thinking surely Dean must have realised it too. But Dean shakily stood up, even though Sam could see him trembling with fear, his fists balled up as if to control his terror.

"H… Hi Mom."

"My precious little boy."

"Dean, that's not Mom." Sam whispered urgently, but Dean seemed oblivious to him. Her arms reached out towards him and all Sam could see were long sharp nails at the end of bony, skeletal fingers. Not nails, he realised in shock, those were talons.

"Dean! Listen to me! That's not Mom!" He grabbed Dean by the arm, roughly pulling him back as Dean tried to step forward, and though he managed to stop his progress, Dean's eyes were still fixed on the creature, even as his tears began to spill.

"Do you know where I was when I died Dean?" The creature hissed.

Dean gulped down a sob, not able to verbalise an answer, merely nodding silently instead.

" _Dean please! Listen to me!"_ Sam pleaded, trying to twist Dean around, to somehow break the spell he seemed under, but he couldn't move him, could only prevent him from stepping away. " _This isn't Mom!_ It's the creature. We need to fight it. _Dean!_ "

But Dean was too transfixed, trying again to step towards what he thought was their mother. Unable to turn him around, Sam did the only thing he could think of, wrapping his arms and legs around Dean and pulling him back into himself, his head resting on Dean's shoulder and hoping his voice in Dean's ear would drown out the creature's taunts. "It's not Mom Dean. It's not Mom. Listen to me, I'm gonna tell you a spell. You have to trust me."

But he didn't know if Dean even heard him as he continued to push against him trying to get away, trying to get to _her_.

"Tell me where I was Dean." The creature asked again "Tell me where I died."

"You… you were in Sammy's room." Dean answered her, his voice faltering over a hiccup and sounding more like a child than anything Sam had ever heard from Dean.

The creature smiled, revealing row upon row of sharp vicious teeth. But the smile turned suddenly, becoming cruel and spiteful.

"That's right! And you know why I was there don't you? You know why I was in _his_ room and not yours!"

Dean nodded, shuddering.

" _Dean don't listen to it. It's not Mom._ "

"Tell me!" The creature screeched. "Tell me! Tell me! Tell me! Tell me! Tell m–!"

" _Because you were trying to save him and not me!_ " Dean screamed, tears falling from his eyes. "You ran to protect him, you wanted to save him, but you didn't even think about me! Did you?! You loved him more than you loved me! That's why you went to his room when the fire started and not mine! That's why you died! _Coz you didn't love me!_ "

And the accusation hung in the air, the violence of it seeming to calcify everything. The words shocked Sam to his core and he gripped Dean tighter, not able to believe what he had heard. In the harshness of those words, there had been resentment and rage, pent up and twisted until Dean had spat it out and the accusations had been fired like a thousand angry shards aimed at the creature he thought was their Mother. But as soon as it was over, as soon as he had said all this, Sam felt Dean falter again. "But I still love you Mommy." He recanted, voice pleading. "It's okay, you can come back."

"Why would I ever come back to you Dean?" The creature said tilting its head, its voice low and quiet, the malice in the soft tones somehow piercing more viciously than the screams ever had. "I hate you."

"I know." Dean acknowledged, voice now as quiet as the creatures.

"Your father and I would never have had Sam if you'd been good enough. And if Sam had never been born, I'd still be alive. If you'd been enough for us, we could have been happy. But you weren't."

"I know." Dean repeated, resigned to statements that weren't even true.

" _Dean_." Sam pleaded but the creature's voice overrode his appeals.

"I tried to love you. I did. But you're just not special enough Dean. That's why I left you. That's why everyone will leave you. That's why I tried to save Sam instead of you. And look what happened."

"I'm sorry."

"And now Sammy's gonna die… because of you Dean. He's gonna die just like I did."

"No!" Dean shouted, some fight returning to him. "Please no. Don't hurt Sammy, it's not his fault, he's just a baby."

"Then let me have you. It's your fault I died, so let me take you."

Sam gave up trying to forcibly turn Dean around, moving himself around to face Dean instead in an attempt to block Dean's view, ignoring the overpowering heat on his back. He covered his brother's ears with his hands, trying to force Dean to focus on him.

"Dean! Dean, listen to me, this isn't real. _None of this is real_. C'mon man! Snap out of this." For a moment Dean seemed to see him, but his eyes began to overfill with tears that spilled down his cheek even as Sam wiped away at them with his thumb.

"I'm sorry." Dean whispered. "I have to save Sammy. I can't…"

Behind him, Sam sensed that their mother, the thing pretending to be their mother, had grown taller, bigger, and that the flames had grown with her, burning close enough to singe the souls of Sam's shoes.

" _Yes you can Dean!_ _C'mon!_ I need your help here man, you can fight this, I know you can. I'll tell you what to say, just repeat after me. That's all you've gotta do Dean. Just repeat after me." But it was as though Dean's fight had left him, and it was then that Sam saw it; two light blue glowing marks on his brother's neck. " _Dean!_ " Sam shook Dean roughly by the shoulders, not caring now if he hurt him, but it made no difference as Dean crumpled downwards.

The flames around them danced closer and closer.

"If you want to save Sammy, you're gonna have to burn just like I did Dean." The monster taunted, and Dean sobbing, nodded his agreement. "Because it's all your fault Dean. I died because of you. All because of you."

Sam spun around, hiding Dean behind himself, facing the grotesque monster that was still wearing their Mother's face.

" _Stay the hell away from him you son of a bitch!_ " He yelled, but instantly he was flung into a far corner of the room, encircled by flames and unable to move. Pinned to the floor, he saw Dean through the flames, curled up, rocking back and forth, crying, as a glowing white wisp slowly seeped from his neck and laced its way towards the creature.

" _Dean!_ " Sam cried again, weakly, but Dean couldn't hear him.

"It's okay Sammy." Dean was muttering to himself, "It's gonna be okay. You'll be okay."

And it was then that it occurred to Sam. The one thing, the _only_ thing that could ever get through to Dean, that would make him find some hidden strength. The one thing he would _always_ fight for.

Sammy.

 _He needs to see me,_ Sam realised. _The young me. Five year old me. That's the one he can't help reacting to. The one he'll always protect_.

In Sam's head, it all made sense. There would be no way that Dean could have known what the 30 something year old Sam would even look like, so whatever Dean was seeing, must have been whatever Sam was projecting. And since Sam wasn't even really physically there, Sam reasoned he should be able to project himself in any which form he wanted. He didn't know exactly _how_ he was going to achieve whatever he thought he had to, but he had an inkling and he knew he had to do it ASAP; time was not on his side. Through the flames he could see Dean, his eyes closed, face deathly pale and Sam prayed it wasn't too late already.

Having spent the past few days in his own five year old company, he focussed on that image, despite the heat and flames that seemed all too real, focussed on reimagining himself in a younger form. It felt like an eternity, he couldn't tell if any transformations had occurred, but he couldn't bear to keep his eyes closed any longer. He opened them and peered at his hand.

Small. Chubby. Fat fingered.

" _Dean!_ " He called out, choking on the smoke, but instantly hearing the immature childish cadence in what had been his previously adult voice. " _Dean help me!_ "

At the sound of his voice, a voice Sam knew Dean couldn't help reacting to, Dean opened his eyes, peering in his direction trying to identify him through the smoke. "Sammy?" He asked hesitantly.

At the creature's scream, the flames danced higher.

"Sammy…? What are you doing here?"

"The creature got me. You have to come get me Dee. Please!"

Dean shook his head, turning to the creature. "You said you wouldn't hurt him if you had me. So let him go... Please Mom."

" _That's not Mom Dean!_ "

Ignoring Sam, the creature spoke directly to Dean. "The sooner you die, the sooner he's saved."

" _Dean it's not Mom!_ " Sam shouted, desperate. "Please listen to me! Look at it! _Look!_ "

Dean hesitated, fear and doubt dancing over his features as he glanced between the creature and his brother. The flames around Sam rose as the creature attempted to obscure him from his brother's gaze, trying to hide him behind a wall of flames.

" _Please Dean!_ " Sam pleaded. "That's not Mom! It's the thing that got me! It's trying to kill me! You always tell me Mom loved us. You know she'd never hurt us! Look at her Dean! _Look!_ "

And it was as if Dean was waking from a trance and the wisp of glowing white smoke seeping from the marks on his neck began to wane. He blinked, staring at the creature, and the visage of their mother disappeared from its face, revealing the creature Sam had known it to be all along; the monster from the warehouse.

"Jeez!" Dean instantly jerked back, the horrific reality of the creature causing him to recoil and scuttle away in terror. "Jesus! Sammy get out of here! _Run!_ "

"I can't get out of the fire Dean." And that was no longer an act, as the flames around Sam were now higher than he stood.

"Stay there Sammy, I'm coming." Dean was already diving towards Sam when the creature lunged for him, missing him entirely.

Sam was still wondering how the hell Dean would get to him or what the hell they were going to do if he did, when Dean rolled straight through the fire, his shirt smouldering as he came to a stop at his Sam's feet.

Dean stood quickly patting at the flames on his arms and immediately grabbed Sam. "I won't let anything get you Sammy. C'mon!" And with that, he scooped Sam up and ran through the flames again, through the door and out into the corridor.

"Dean stop!" Sam shouted, but Dean was like a bullet, running so fast he nearly dropped Sam. They both heard the creature's roar behind them as Dean raced through the house that now seemed like a labyrinth. He put Sam down, grabbing his hand instead and roughly dragging him along through smoke filled hallways and rooms.

"Dean we have to fight it, it's the only way. Dean! Stop!" And he pulled his hand free from Dean's grip. Dean spun around.

" _What the hell Sam!_ " And he reached for him but Sam backed away.

"Please Dean, listen to me! We have to stop it! We can't run away!"

Behind them, they could hear the creature crashing through the house as it got closer.

"I can't Sam, I'm not Dad. We need to go! Now!"

But Sam squirmed further away, backing into a door handle. He spun around, opening the door and running through, knowing Dean would follow him.

" _Sammy!_ "

The room was smoky and dark, lacking definition, but ignoring his brother's cry Sam ran towards what looked like a table and crawled under as far back as he could go. Dean was right behind him, his arm scrambling to try to get a hold of him.

"What the hell're you doing Sammy! Come on! We have to go!"

But Sam pushed himself further back.

"Listen to me Dean! I know how to stop it. You have to believe me. _Please!_ "

Dean had managed to grab a hold of Sam's cuff and was pulling him out. Sam used all his strength to pull back, surprising them both when he managed to pull Dean under the table.

"You're always telling me how smart I am Dean, so please believe me! I know how to stop it. I know a spell."

"You don't know what you're talking about Sam!"

"I do! I swear!... I… I read it in Dad's book! In his journal!"

And that made Dean pause. He stopped trying to drag Sam out and stared at him. It was plausible, and Dean knew it. Even in this dream world, there was still some semblance to logic. Sam carried on, more softly but hastily.

"I read what it said about the fire monster in the house. I read how Dad said to stop it. We have to say the spell. I remember it Dean. You have to say it with me."

Dean bit his lip, conflicting emotions fighting their way through. Every instinct in him, Sam knew, must have been telling his brother to grab him and run, but even Dean, as stubborn and bull headed as he could be, knew when to concede to a better plan.

The fight or flight decision however, was made for them as the smoke intensified and barely seconds later the creature crashed through the doorway in a fireball of flames, smouldering splinters and still burning shards flying into the air and landing in darkened corners of the room, glowing white hot as the embers and cinders hungrily sought more fuel to burn through.

The creature had given up all pretence of wearing any human skin or form, the flames that encased it merely a representation of what Dean feared most in this house.

Dean quickly scrambled under the table and wrapped Sam up in his arms, in much the same position that Sam had held Dean earlier. He pressed Sam's head into his chest, his hand on the back of Sam's head trying to shield him from the view. They could see the creature's feet as it prowled just meters away from them, cinders dripping from its skin and flames igniting where it stood. They could hear as it sniffed the air, searching for them, and Dean held Sam tighter.

" _Please Dean_." Sam pleaded. " _Please believe me_. We can get rid of it, you and me _together_." He raised his head, holding his brother's face in his chubby little hands, trying to catch his gaze and hoping his brother would trust him despite all the reasons he shouldn't be listening to a five year old right then. There was an internal battle between logic and instinct waging behind Dean's eyes, the indecisiveness reflected on his face as he looked at his little brother. "We'll always look out for each other Dean." Sam whispered. "We're family. We're brothers. I promise I know what to do. _Please._ _Trust me_."

There must have been something that Dean saw in Sam's eyes that did the trick, or maybe it was simply because Dean would always trust Sam when it came right down to it, but whatever the reason Dean's instincts won out and he nodded. "Okay Sammy…" He said shakily. "All right. Tell me what to say."

As if on cue, the creature upturned the table sending it flying into oblivion and both Sam and Dean jumped to their feet, Dean shoving Sam behind him and adopting a protective stance. Through the flames the creature's talons, like its teeth, shone white from the heat. It took a step towards them.

"You'll never get him!" Dean shouted up at the monster. "You hear me you ugly son of a bitch!? I'll never let you hurt him _you bastard_!"

The spell came to Sam instantly and he began shouting out the Enochian that was embedded in his head by angelic magic, the words seeming to flow from his lips without effort. He tugged at Dean's arm and stutteringly Dean began repeating after him, stumbling over the words, all the while holding Sam back from the advancing creature.

Dream or not, Sam was terrified, but Dean, Dean was something else. Though initially faltering and halting, with every Enochian syllable he uttered, he seemed to stand taller, his hands balling into fists ready to inflict damage and his stubborn stance radiating anger and rebellion and fight.

He was standing up to the creature. This terrifying, ferocious, monstrous thing, that towered over them and was nightmares incarnate, and Dean, _a nine year old child Dean_ , was somehow finding the courage to stand up to it, to fight it.

The creature gnashed its teeth and reached out a long, grotesque limb towards them, talons inches from Dean's face and Sam wrapped his arms around his brother's waist even as Dean tried to push Sam further away in an attempt to protect him.

The talons grazed Dean's cheek and his skin instantly blistered as if lanced by a white hot knife, but even as he cried out in pain, Dean managed to yell the last word of the incantation through gritted teeth. There was a bright flash blinding both Sam and Dean momentarily. When their vision returned, they saw the creature through a murky green haze, the flames surrounding it somehow sated and the creature itself frozen, engulfed in a glowing, pulsating mushroom cloud of green smoke.

Dean quickly pushed Sam away to the side and they both cautiously circled around the creature, taking quick but tentative wary steps, neither one fully convinced that it wouldn't reanimate and lunge for them. Before Sam could say anything, Dean scooped him up and ran, hurtling down the stairs and out of the door. Behind them, the fire in the rest of the house raged on and from the end of the garden path, they watched the house smoulder and burn to ruin.

Dean was crouched down, holding Sam and hugging him tight.

"It's okay, Sammy. You did great! It's all right, I got you, you're safe."

Sam didn't realise when he'd returned to his adult form but he had, and his arms were wrapped around Dean just as tightly.

"You did it Dean!" he whispered, tightening his grip around his brother, pride and relief flooding into him. "You _did_ it!"

 _Dean_.

Sam didn't know who had said that, except that he knew it hadn't been him.

 _Dean, wake up._

And just like that, with no transitional lag whatsoever, Sam was back in the motel room. He could see Dean in bed, asleep as he had been, but now a figure sat on the bed beside him, crowding over him, and it took a moment for Sam to recognise the silhouette as belonging to their father.

"It's okay son, it's just dream." John said firmly as he gently shook Dean's shoulder. "Wake up."

Despite their father's gentleness, Dean woke abruptly, sitting up and looking about him frantically.

"Sammy!" he called out. In the bed next to them, Sammy stirred, but didn't wake.

"It's okay Dean, it's okay. Sammy's fine." John reassured as he placed a calming hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean's movements eased at the touch and he blinked rapidly to banish the sleep from his eyes.

" _Dad?..._ Dad! You're back! Is Sammy–"

"Sammy's fine Dean. You're both fine. You were just having a nightmare, that's all."

Dean nodded, swallowing, regaining composure quickly but his breathing was still fast and Sam could see he was shaking. John hesitated.

"You wanna tell me what it was about?"

Dean's mouth twitched and he paused a moment as though weighing something up, before shrugging and shaking his head, walls going up and emotions being bitten down, just like their father had taught him. "It was just… it was just a dream Dad. I'm okay… Sorry." He added as an afterthought, though Sam didn't know what Dean was apologising for.

John nodded, looked down at his lap, but kept his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Was it… Was it your Mother?"

Dean sniffed, bit his lip to keep it from quivering. "I'm sorry Dad." He said again, quietly. "I know it's just a dream. I haven't had it for a long time. But you don't have to worry about me Dad, I'm OK."

Sam didn't know their mother's death had been a reoccurring theme for Dean's nightmares, although it was only natural that it would be he supposed. He didn't know how much of what he'd been witness to in Dean's head that night was the normal course of those dreams though, or how much if anything John had known about it, about what Dean secretly thought in his nightmares. He certainly didn't think their father would respond or react to what Dean had said, but to his surprise, John did, his voice soft but intense.

"Of course I have to worry about you Dean. About both of you. It's my job… And… I know how much you miss your Mother. I miss her too. God! I miss her all the time son…"

Dean shifted awkwardly. "I know Dad… I'm sorry."

"I know it's hard, for all of us. But I know how brave you are Dean, how _strong_. So it's OK."

Dean shook his head. "I just… I just thought something bad had happened." He looked over to his brother who was sleeping soundly. "I thought you left for good and I thought I couldn't save Sam… And I thought Mom…" But he couldn't finish.

"I know son. I know… But it was just dream, it wasn't real. Mary loved you, Dean. Never forget how much she loved you. Both of you. She loved you boys _so much_ … And so do I Dean… You know that, right?"

Dean nodded, head bent low, wiping away at a tear that must have been rolling down his face. John hesitated again, but then surprised both Sam and Dean when he pulled Dean into a hug, wrapping his arms around him and stroking his head.

"It's all right son. It's gonna be all right. You hear me? You don't have to worry, it's all gonna be OK."

If Dean was startled, it didn't last long as he quickly eased into John's embrace, burying his head in their father's shoulder as John rocked him gently, continuing to stroke his head and softly reassure him.

Sam wanted to stay in that moment, to somehow stop everything from progressing and just stop it there, stop it all from changing, because in that moment he knew Dean felt safe. He knew Dean felt loved.

But beyond that moment, whether it would take years or just a few more months, their father would eventually change. Would become cold and more distant, and never be like this. Sam knew that because he couldn't remember John being so tender, not with Dean. With him maybe, but not Dean.

Sam's tears were clouding his vision, the scene before him becoming hazy and blurred till it was obscured completely. And just as he tried to blink the tears away it occurred to him that there was no way he could be crying, not in the non-corporeal form he was in, and in that same instant he realised the reason why he was.

He was back. Back on the warehouse floor, back in the present. Back with _his_ Dean. The tears slipping from his eyes ran down the side of his face and pooled on the warehouse floor on either side of his head. Above him, he made out a familiar figure staring down at him.

"Cas…" He realised, vocalising the thought. "I'm back."

"How do you feel? Are you hurt?" The angel didn't waste any words on preamble as he reached out a hand and pulled Sam up.

"Dean! How's–"

The angel held up a hand cutting Sam off. "He's fine. It worked. You did it Sam." And he gifted Sam with a rare smile, his relief palpable. "I don't know how, but you did it." He indicated to where Dean lay, still unconscious. "I need to finish the ritual but Dean should be waking up soon."

Sam rushed over to Dean, cradling his brother gently in his arms while Castiel turned his attention to the still immobile creature.

Sam closed his eyes tight, the sensation of being back, of having a body, of smells and touch and pain, of holding his brother, of _actual physical_ contact after what felt like weeks of being nothing more than a ghost, all fought for attention and he was overwhelmed. He gripped Dean tighter, not able to trust that it was real, not able to trust he wouldn't burst out into tears, and just waited for Dean to wake up, knowing he could never let him go.


	10. Chapter 10: Best Big Brother Ever

_**Chapter 10: Best Big Brother Ever**_

Dean would never let Sam go.

But it was more than that. To say it so simply was such an understatement, it would be almost ludicrous if it hadn't been proved time and time again. No matter how unworthy Sam felt, no matter how far he fell, no matter what he did or who it hurt, if you put the whole world in a pile and all of heaven and hell to boot, all the billions of lives and souls, all on one side with Sam on the other, and asked Dean to choose, in Dean's book Sam would trump them all every single time. And for a man whose very nature was defined by the innate instinct to save people, who would without even an ounce of hesitation or self-preservation throw himself into the devils palm just to save complete strangers, the magnitude of that choice was simply impossible to ever truly comprehend or acknowledge.

No matter how they grew and developed, no matter what passed between them or how their relationship changed, that was one aspect that Dean wouldn't, couldn't change. He couldn't let Sam go. Sam suspected he simply didn't know how, that he wouldn't be capable of it even if he tried. How could he be? It was something so engrained in him, something so integral and hard-wired into the make-up that made him _him_ , that to let that go would be like asking someone to cleave their soul in half.

It was something Sam had never fully appreciated, had never truly understood, up until now. But now, having seen what he'd seen, having witnessed all the things that he had with an adult's understanding of what a child should and shouldn't have to do, he knew protecting Sam was something Dean simply couldn't help. Sam was too much a part of Dean, perhaps the only part of him that Dean would never sacrifice for anything, perhaps the only part of himself that Dean truly loved.

And he realised something else suddenly too; that no matter how much he wanted to be there to support his brother, there was a small selfish part of him that didn't want to ever be able to see through that mask, that didn't want to ever lose the luxury of security that the mask provided. If Dean lied to him and told him it was okay, Sam wanted to go on believing it.

And though he knew it frustrated him sometimes, more times than it should perhaps, that Dean didn't open up to him and trust him more, he was beginning to understand that perhaps Dean simply couldn't. That perhaps being a big brother wasn't a job you could just clock on and off from whenever you wanted, at the whimsical flick of a switch. The job was for life, not just Christmas.

Sam knew that it would always dog him, that he would never escape from under the mantle of Little Brother. It would always be there, impinging on his sense of freedom and independence and he realised it would undoubtedly frustrate him again, the irritation no doubt habitually flaring up again in time.

But for right then, sitting with a stiff back on the cold warehouse floor, for everything he had witnessed, for all the ways in which he had seen his brother unconditionally love and shield and safeguard him, Sam forgave Dean everything.

The fact that Sam had come so close to losing him, to losing the one person who loved him unreservedly, made Sam's heart clench up.

Dean groaned, finally stirring and Sam, though still supporting his brother, pushed Dean back away from him slightly so that he could look at him, could look him in the eye, holding his head between his hands to help keep him steady, aware that he was probably gripping him a little too tightly, but unable to loosen his grip just yet. He needed Dean to see him, to hear him. He needed Dean to _know_.

"You are _the_ best big brother ever Dean. You hear me? You're awesome."

Dean pulled back from him to study his face, a pained and confused frown creasing his brow as he became more conscious, and eyes that had barely been able to focus, now squinted at him with such utter bewilderment that for all it mattered Sam could have just told him that he believed the moon was a pretzel and that he'd just seen a giant rabbit eat it clean out of the sky. All in Swahili.

" _What?"_ He rasped, somehow managing to seem annoyed and irritated despite everything, the frown deepening as he vaguely shook his head as if it would shake away his confusion, the movement instantly causing him to keel over slightly in pain.

"Okay, okay. Easy." Sam reassured, moving one arm around his brothers shoulders while letting the other hand fall to his neck, still supporting Deans head as it rested against his palm, gently guiding and manoeuvring Dean so that his own frame could support his brother's weight more fully. Dean for his part, didn't protest. Sam glanced over to where Cas was completing the banishing ritual.

The murky green haze that had been engulfing the creature shone brightly for a moment, before dissipating completely, taking the creature with it.

"What about the other victims?" Sam asked, even though right then, if he was forced to be completely honest, he really didn't care as long as Dean was safe.

"They will recover." The angel said, walking over to the two brothers and crouching down to their level. "It will take time, as it will for Dean. But they will all be fine."

"Cas?" Dean had momentarily recovered enough composure to recognise his friend, but clearly not enough to become fully aware of much else. The sheer warmth in Cas' smile when he looked at Dean spoke volumes of his regard for the older Winchester. It crinkled the corners of his mouth and made his eyes sparkle in the dim confines of the warehouse. He tilted his head to one side, regarding his friend with a mixture of fondness and profound relief.

"Hello Dean."

"Cas… Sam you called _Cas?_ After I _told_ you... Wait… Wait are we… Sammy are we _dead_?"

Sam couldn't help the laugh that escaped him as his own relief bubbled to the surface, and even Cas' smile widened to a grin that showed his teeth, till he looked down to hide his face.

"No, Dean." Cas replied, shaking his head as he looked back up to meet his friends confused gaze, eyes still sparkling and smile lingering for a moment more before his face took on a mildly sterner expression. "But you should sleep." And before Dean could even begin to protest, Cas touched his fingertips to Dean's head and Dean slumped against Sam's chest, asleep.

Sam gripped his older brother tightly, knowing Cas was about transport them away from there.

"You're the best big brother ever Dean." He repeated, as at Cas' touch the light engulfed them and transported them back to safety. "Best big brother ever."

 _xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

Dean was confused.

Or more accurately, he felt unsure. Uncertain. His memories of what he assumed were the few hours during the hunt seemed to be muddled, somehow feeling as though they spanned a much longer space of time than he believed they should have. There were bits and pieces of non-sequitur recollections, jumbled up and entering his head at random, and collectively they didn't make sense to him.

He thought he remembered being with Sam, arguing, outside of the mill. Was sure of it in fact, and felt a small pang of guilt at snapping at him, but he couldn't help it sometimes. Sam could be so damn rational it annoyed him. Then he remembered, quite vividly, being in the vice-like grip of the creature, staring at what seemed like a million teeth and thinking, quite absurdly, that if his face ended up in being a chew-toy for that thing, there would be no chance of his leaving a good looking corpse behind.

And then….

And then.

That's where his mind ceased to be cooperative, seeming intent on following absurd and unrelated pathways through his brain. On the one hand, it seemed the next thing that happened was his waking up on the mill's warehouse floor, embarrassingly in Sam's arms, with Sam saying nonsensically inappropriate things and Cas smiling down goofily at him. But then also, it seemed as though in that short space of time, he had relived his childhood. Or actually, and this was the scary part, at times he had felt sure he was still living it. A few times he had fully believed that he was still a kid, maybe nine or ten years old, and confronting the adult version of his reflection in the bathroom mirror when he'd gone to take a leak had startled a yelp from him, though thankfully Sam hadn't heard. Another time he had been frantic that he had lost Sam, waking up in the middle of the night calling out his name. When Sam had been by his side, worried eyes and calming hands trying to bring him back to the land of the living, for a moment Dean hadn't recognised him at all, panic growing at the sight of this old stranger, instead of his five year old little brother. And though that feeling had passed almost instantly, it still bothered him that it had happened at all. Why would it be, Dean wondered, not able to find the answer anywhere in his head. Why the hell would it be?

And there were other things. He was remembering something, someone, he thought he had known. Someone he had somehow forgotten. A friend. A hero. Someone he looked up to. But the memory was hazy and would evaporate the moment he tried to focus on it, as if he were the Sun trying to stare at a raindrop.

He remembered how much he had worried as a child. How scared he used to be. How alone he used to feel sometimes. How overwhelmed. Those memories and feelings felt fresh in his mind, even though he knew he had long ago outgrown them. But still, for some reason that eluded him, it was as though those wounds had been carved into him anew and he was bleeding those emotions all over again.

He also remembered his dreams. Or more accurately, his nightmares, and that was the thing he hated most. He wished those had been the things his memory could have been hazy about instead. How in his nightmares, for years, his mother had told him she hated him. How she had told him she died because of him. How in the deepest, darkest, most lonely part of his heart, he had believed it all to be true. And no matter how much he told himself it wasn't, there was still that tiny little whisper of doubt that left everything in his mind tasting bitter and vile.

So for all these reasons, all these doubts and confusions, all rolling around in his head, it was with a resigned sigh that he acknowledged he had to confront Sam. Had to find out exactly what the hell had gone down while he'd been catching a few zee's on that lovely warehouse floor.

An awkwardly orchestrated bowel movement scene, or whatever the hell it was called, was headed their way.

And he knew Sam knew it, was if anything, itching to instigate it. He could feel it in the way Sam was tiptoeing around him, fishing for a good moment to pounce.

Dean could feel his brother watching him, constantly, and it was frankly beginning to make him feel claustrophobic. It reminded him of when they'd been younger and Sam had gone through a similar phase, relentlessly following Dean around, spying on him when he thought it wasn't obvious. Dean really hoped Sam wasn't going through a relapse. The first time had lasted a good few years and at its extreme, even their Dad had felt the need to step in and tell Sam to back off. Not that it used to do much good. As annoying as it had become back then, now, as adults, it was downright unnerving.

Every now and then, Dean would catch Sam looking at him with a profound expression of… Dean didn't even want to speculate what it might be. Sappiness? Goofiness? Oh god! Chick flick bromance. Chewing on his lower lip, with puppy dog eyes that almost welled over every time their eyes met, causing Dean to abruptly look away from this vista of Sam, pretending he hadn't cottoned on while knowing full god damn well there was that deep melodramatic talk coming his way. Dean knew it was unavoidable; he could sense the emotional pressure building like an imminent storm, slowly gathering force and bearing down.

He sighed. He supposed it needed to happen. He knew it needed to happen. He couldn't go on with this muddled state of mind he felt he was walking around with.

He hadn't been avoiding the talk on purpose entirely. Not initially at least. Despite having thought Cas was being overly protective in suggesting some time off, Dean found himself to be unusually drowsy for the first few days of his recovery, to the point where he found himself incapable of staying awake for more than an hour or so at most. He wondered if it had been something Cas had done, some residual drawn out spell to ensure he would rest, or whether it had been the aftereffects of whatever injury or infection he had sustained with the creature's attack. Whichever it had been, he had to grudgingly admit, he felt better for it, feeling more rested and whole by the time day three of his recovery rolled around. It was then that he had begun to notice Sam's scrutiny of him more acutely.

While he had been aware of his brother in the days prior, it had been through bleary-eyed snapshots and snippets glimpsed between semi-conscious states. Sam sleeping in a chair next to his bed, Sam on the floor at the foot of the sofa Dean had fallen asleep on, Sam hovering as Dean tried to get up, Sam putting food in front of him, Sam watching over him as he slept.

Now that he was more cogent, it was too obvious to ignore. And besides, he could always read Sammy like an open book.

So when, on day six, Sam coughed to get his attention, squirmed unnecessarily in his seat, and seemed to take a deep breath as if to steady himself, Dean knew what was coming. A part of him wanted to just stop Sam before he even got started, but then he realised this was something Sam needed to do, and that since Sam had saved his life, apparently, Dean begrudgingly had to concede he owed his younger brother this much at least. And besides, as he'd already admitted to himself, he needed to know what had happened as much as Sam needed him to know.

So he listened. He squirmed and fidgeted throughout the whole of Sam's account but to his credit, he didn't storm out or give too many flippant remarks or even, despite what he may have wanted, give Sam his ' _Really dude? Seriously?_ ' look. Not very often at least.

When Sam's tale reached the point at which he began recounting how he'd entered Dean's dream, Dean had paled, and realisation of one of the things that had been bothering him, one of the answers that had been eluding him these past few days, hit him with a mental sucker-punch. At that point he'd had to get up under the pretence of grabbing another beer, just so Sam wouldn't be able to see his shocked expression.

"…that's when I somehow ended up back at the mill, back on the warehouse floor." Sam finally rounded off. "I guess Cas pulled me back, or with the creature bound up, I got pulled back. I don't know man. But that's the gist of it all. The rest I guess you know."

His tale finished, Sam felt suddenly drained, the adrenaline of wondering whether he would even get to finish now all but burnt up and leaving in its wake an odd sort of emptiness that made his hands tremble. After a momentary pause, he reached for the bottle that Dean had placed invitingly in front of him not too long ago and took a long welcome swig. The postponed dip into Dutch courage took effect immediately, the cool liquid sliding down his throat and making him feel instantly a little calmer for it.

Dean was rolling his own beer bottle between his hands, not meeting Sam's eyes.

"You gonna say something?" Sam finally asked, a little perturbed by his brother's silence, finding that he couldn't read him, couldn't tell if he was fuming or not.

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then closed it back up again, face going through a myriad of expressions, none of which he articulated.

"Dean!" Sam prompted, not even caring anymore if Dean was about to erupt, as long as he said something.

"…It's just… I mean…" Dean squirmed, not meeting Sam's gaze. "Dude, you were in my head! I mean, that's just… that's like… it's _weird_. It's like incest or something." He shuddered, seemed so genuinely uncomfortable that Sam couldn't help laughing at him. At that, Dean _did_ finally look up, annoyance flashing in his eyes. "Oh you think this is funny?!"

"I don't know man, it's just… I'm sorry I had to go in your head okay. But it's not like I was in full control of what happened Dean. If it makes you feel any better, you didn't dream of anything weird, like preteen let's go to Porkies weird. And it all worked out so… Yeah, I'm glad and you can be mad at me if you like, but I'm taking it as a win." He took another swig of his beer. "… Besides, _you_ would've done the same thing."

Dean opened his mouth reflexively at that, outright indignation and denial on the tip of his tongue. But Sam raised his eyebrow at him, challenging, and Dean found he couldn't refute it, realising that Sam, annoyingly, was right.

"Fine." Dean huffed, the closest he was willing to come to conceding defeat. At least, he thought to himself, at least now it was all out in the open, all over and done with. "…So," He started, taking a quick sip of his beer and keeping his tone serious. "… I guess this means you won't strike out so much with the ladies anymore, huh?"

"… _What?_ "

"You know, being in my head an' all, you must've picked up a few pointers. It's all right man, we're both adults here. This is a safe space Sammy, you can say it, ain't no shame in admitting you learned a thing or two from a better man, from a master." He waggled his eyebrows. "Admit it dude, I'm awesome."

He grinned broadly, he knew annoyingly, and waited for Sam's retaliation. He'd meant it as a joke of course, hoping Sam would roll his eyes, call him a jerk, and that would be the end of it. Sam however looked anything but flippant, with an altogether more sincere expression moulding his features, and Dean realised with horror that Sam was about to get very touchy feely. Inwardly he groaned. Hadn't he been through enough already? He managed to say Sam's name just as the younger man held up a hand, pre-empting his objections and stopping him before he could make them.

"I learned more than just a thing or two Dean. And you really _are_ awesome, I mean it. You can joke all you like but the truth is, you are. You _always_ were. I was…"

"Sam–"

"I know I've taken you, taken it all for granted. And all the times I left, not just for Stanford, but–"

"C'mon man, don't–"

"When I ran away as a kid, I was selfish and ignorant and… _but I see that now Dean_. I mean, you're the best big brother I could have ever asked for. You always were, and I was just so wrapped up in–"

"Okay, okay, I get it. You had some weird mind meld Spock induced revelations in my head and now you feel grateful or something. Whatever dude, I get it. But can we please just… not?" And even though he'd tried his best not to be gruff, Sam looked away, gritting his teeth and shaking his head angrily. Dean sighed, continued, trying for a tone more conciliatory. "Look man, I'm grateful you saved my life, _believe me_ I really am. And you're grateful that, I don't know, that I gave you my ice cream when we were kids, _I get it_. It's just… Do we really need to go all doctor Phil over this? Can't we just pretend Thanksgiving came early this year, both say we're grateful and just leave it at that?"

"No Dean, we can't!" Sam spoke out then, almost shouting as the emotions he'd been trying to keep in check broke through. "I _need_ you to know. I need–", His voice wavered and he took a breath to calm himself before continuing. "I need to thank you for everything you've ever done. I mean half the stuff you did I bet I'll never even know about. And I want to tell you how grateful I am except I don't even know how, _where_ , to begin man! Because I've spent so much of my life wrapped up in my own crap Dean, just being _so damned selfish and stupid and arrogant and blind_ that I couldn't see _everything_ you were doing for me. _All_ the time! You were _always_ there for me Dean, _always_. Even when I haven't deserved it. And I just, I just threw it all away like… I just… But I'm sorry Dean. I'm so sorry. I'm… I don't know how to–" He broke off, unable to continue, looking imploringly at his brother, eyes pleading for some kind of forgiveness that Dean hadn't even thought ever needed to be given, as tears he'd been fighting but couldn't anymore finally slipped down his face.

"Sammy–"

But what was Dean supposed to say? He hated it, _hated it_ , when Sam cried. Always had. It felt like angel blades were carving pain sigils deep into his heart, made him want to claw at his own chest, rip his heart out with his bare hands and offer it up to any demon or god or anything willing to take him up on the offer to trade it in and burn it just to stop Sam from being hurt anymore.

But he couldn't do that so he did the only thing he knew how. He moved around the table, opened his arms, and Sam practically fell into the embrace.

"C'mon man." He soothed, feeling the shuddering hitch of Sam's breath as the younger Winchester clung on to him, hirsute head buried somewhere near his shoulder and hands balling up the fabric on the back of his shirt. "It's okay little brother, I got you. It's OK."

Although Dean had been dreading it initially, thinking he hated these emotional turns, and had then been alarmed at the intensity of where it was heading, the truth of it was that when Sam's breathing eased up, Dean realised a part of him needed this, had missed it even. A part of him was glad to be able to step into this role again. Not that he'd wanted his brother to be so miserable, not at all, but just that it felt good to be able to mend whatever was broken in him. So often, against the things they faced, he felt powerless and small. But this? This he was _made_ for.

As they'd grown, as Sam had grown into adulthood, he didn't need Dean as much anymore. Didn't need Dean in the same way. And while that was of course great, Dean hadn't realised what it was he had relinquished through his brother's maturity, not until right that moment when his little brother was crying and looking to Dean for something so rare and elusive he couldn't find it in or ask it from anyone else but him. Something that would be worthless and impotent from anyone else but him. It was Dean's ability, bestowed through his right as a big brother, to fix things, to make it better. Sam's unwavering belief that if Dean said so, it must be so. If Dean said it would be okay, then god damnit, it was gonna be okay.

Dean missed that, from Sam and himself, missed that ability to provide solace with something as simple as a hug. His role as big brother wasn't one he would ever retire from, and as he rubbed Sam's back, hearing his breathing calm, he realised he never wanted to. Until the day he died, and even beyond if he had anything to do with it, he would always be there for him, whenever he needed it. He would never let Sam go.

Dean waited, allowing Sam to be the one to pull back first whenever he was ready. When he did, his eyes were puffy and red rimmed, and he looked exhausted. It occurred to Dean that, given what Sam had told him, the length of time he'd spent in the past, his consciousness must have been constantly awake for the entirety of it, for all of those four or so days and nights. In fact, knowing Sam, he probably hadn't really slept much since they'd been back either, not if he'd been worrying over a non-one hundred per cent Dean.

No wonder he was on edge and strung out all the way from here to Kansas and back.

Poor kid.

Dean rubbed a hand over his own face and let out a weary sigh, its release seeming to take his pretences with it and the hand seeming to wipe away all traces of derision and subterfuge from his face. He was tired too, suddenly feeling the full weight of things he'd bottled up and been carrying around with him all these years. He looked at Sam, saw that he was pulling himself together, saw that he was stronger than he had been as a child, and made a decision as he settled back down in his own seat. He startled Sam, making him jump a little, when he began talking.

"You know when I was a kid, right after… after mom died, I was scared of everything for a while. Well, I guess you know that now. But I mean Sammy, _everything_. Like, for ages– ha! For ages, I was even scared of _stairs_ , of going anywhere upstairs you know? Coz… Coz Mom died upstairs, and I had to run down the stairs with you, thinking I would trip so… And I was convinced that Dad made us stay in motels coz our rooms would all be on one floor and I wouldn't have to go upstairs, coz he knew how scared I was. I thought he was doing it for me… Maybe a part of him was, I mean we always got ground level rooms… I don't know… Anyway, I guess if it hadn't have been for you, I would've always been afraid of things. I mean, you were a royal pain in the ass, don't get me wrong… But you were also my responsibility. I know you hate me saying it, but it was my job to look out for you. So I had to step up… I guess what I mean is, if it hadn't a been for you, I'd have had no reason to go up the stairs or to try and stop being scared all the time… or be ready to fight whatever I had to fight. So, you know, I guess I owe you a thanks too… Or something."

Sam shook his head. "You don't owe me anything Dean. If anything, I owe you."

"Yeah well, if that's the case, how about we just call it evens and quit while we're all square huh?"

Sam knew this was awkward for Dean. Knew that it took a lot for Dean to open up like he had. And while it was the most Dean had given him in a long time, there was something else that had been deeply bothering Sam. Except he didn't know how to say it, or how Dean would react. He took a deep breath.

"Dean, in the dream… in the dream, you said something, but I don't know if it was true, like if it really happened, or if it was just something in your head but…"

"Just spit it out Sam."

"You said you saw pictures of Mom. Like police report pictures. Was that true?"

Dean was quiet for a long time, rubbing a hand over his face again, then he reverted to his go to evasive manoeuvre, that of heading for the fridge to retrieve a couple of beers. Sam was eyeing him the whole time, too afraid to push, just waiting in silence, unsure if Dean would even ever reply.

Dean opened the beers one by one, placing one in front of Sam and taking a long, deep swig from his own, before finally responding.

"Yeah." He said quietly. "It was true."

Sam felt sick. Despite everything, he'd been hoping beyond hope that _that_ particular element of it had been fabricated, that it had just been a twisted morbid figment of Dean's mind. He wasn't sure he knew how to deal with it being true.

"Dean…" But he couldn't think of anything to say and felt another wave of nausea wash over him. He reached for the bottle Dean had placed in front of him and took a long drink, getting through most of it in that one go.

"Ease up." Dean warned quietly, eyeing him warily as Sam downed the beer too fast and Sam nodded, taking the hint and shakily placing the bottle back onto the table. "Look man." Dean said, sensing the affect this information was having on Sam, knowing it was too late now to pretend it had never been said. "I was young. And stupid. I wish I'd never seen the report, but if I hadn't I think I would have imagined things a million times worse. Or maybe just broken into the police station and stolen it for myself. Either way, I would have seen it. I would've gotten my hands on it somehow. I know it was a stupid thing to do, but…" He shrugged. "At the time I thought I needed to do it. So I did it and it's done. It doesn't matter now anyway."

But Sam couldn't let it go. "It was in Dad's things?"

"What?"

"You said you found the police report about Mom in Dad's things. Was that true?"

"Sammy–"

"Was it true Dean?"

Dean sighed, knowing exactly where Sam was headed with this. "Yeah, it was true. But don't start on Dad all right? I shouldn't have been looking through his things, but I did, so it was my own fault, not his, so just don't start on him okay, just… Just, don't."

And as much as he didn't want to right then, hearing the weariness in Dean's voice made Sam clamp his mouth shut. It took him a few swallows to push down the anger at the irresponsibility of their father, but he managed it enough to ask Dean something else that was bothering him about that.

"How come I've never seen it?"

"Hmm?"

"The report; it's not in Dad's things anymore. Where is it?"

"Oh, yeah. That. Well…. Yeah well I threw it."

"You _threw_ it?"

"Yeah Sam I threw it. Dumped it, got rid of it. Threw it. So it's gone."

"What? _Why? When?"_

"Don't you get mad at me Sammy. That thing, that thing was…. Trust me, you'd never have wanted to see it. But you were just at that age where you were starting to poke your nose into every little thing you weren't supposed to. And God knows I couldn't keep an eye on you all the time. And I told Dad we should get rid of it, but he just got mad, said he'd lock it away somewhere. But I knew you'd find it eventually. I mean if I did and I'm not that smart, I knew it wouldn't take you long. So I decided to get rid of it, before you could ever see it. Cause believe me Sammy, you wouldn't have wanted to see it. I did it to protect you, and I don't care how mad you get at me, I don't regret it. Not once."

There was a stubborn, defiant edge to Dean as he glared at Sam and then drained the rest of his beer. But he'd misunderstood. Sam wasn't angry, not at all. He was grateful that Dean had done that, completely and utterly grateful, without a single shred of resentment. He remembered Jess's report and he really didn't think he could have handled his mothers. Not at all, not even as an adult and certainly not as a child.

"Dean I… Thank you. I mean it. You… just… thank you."

That took Dean off guard, but he shrugged a response and looked away.

"What did Dad say?" Sam prompted, not wanting to leave things on such a sombre note.

"About what?"

"About you getting rid of the report. I bet he was pissed right?"

Dean chuckled, an odd sad smile creasing his face, his voice startlingly soft when he spoke. "You'd think so wouldn't you? I was all set for a show down. Thought he might actually disown me or something, knew he'd probably kick my ass all the way through to next year. But when I told him, and I was all set for a fight, when I told him, he just… just sat down. Didn't say a word, for ages. Freaked me the hell out. Then finally he just got up and hugged me. I mean, he hadn't hugged me in ages, he stopped doing that I guess pretty much after I was nine or something. But he hugged me then, and it freaked me out. And then he said thank you, which freaked me out even more. But that was that. We never spoke about it again."

Sam didn't know what to make of that, but apparently, Dean did.

"I know right? But I thought about it, like years later, why he didn't get mad, and I think it was because he knew he had to get rid of that thing. He knew he should. But I think it would've felt like throwing a part of Mom away, even as awful as it was. And I don't think Dad had it in him to do that, no matter how much he knew he should. So when I did it, I guess he was grateful, like I'd taken the burden away, or taken the hit or something. That's the only thing I can think of anyway."

"Yeah. Yeah I think you're right."

They sat in silence, both mulling over their own thoughts, and this time it was Sam who got up to retrieve their beers. There was something else that had just occurred to him, and this was the most open heart to heart they'd had in a long while, so Sam figured he might as well push his luck. The look that had passed over his brothers features while Sam had been recounting his adventure was still on his mind and he wanted to know what he'd said to have caused it.

"A moment ago," He began, as he passed Dean a beer. "When I started telling you about how I ended up in your dream, you got this weird look on your face man… like you'd seen a ghost or something. What was that about?"

Dean glanced up, looked embarrassed, an almost apologetic smile on his lips. "Oh. You caught that huh?…. It was… It was nothing." And he clammed up, but Sam wasn't about to let it go, keeping his eyes on him but not saying a word till Dean sighed. "Well… I mean, obviously I didn't know it was _you_ at the time… but I guess… I guess maybe I dreamt about you, like a couple of times after maybe."

"You dreamt about me? As in more than once?... But… But Dean I was only in your dream that one time. How…? Why were you dreaming about me man? Why was I in your dreams?"

"Oh yeah, that doesn't sound gay at all." He mumbled, sighing again, a long weary sigh of a man who knew he had no choice but to spill the precious petty beans he was trying so desperately to hold on to. "No wonder they write that Axel Rose fiction crap about us."

" _What?_ …No, dude it's slash, not…. Never mind. You dreamt about me? After that night?... You dreamt about me."

"I may have dreamt about you once or twice after that initial dream, all right? And quite saying it like that!"

"Hang on. You told me you didn't remember being there, in that town. Now you're saying you remember me being in your dreams? So wait, do you remember _that_ dream?"

"Yes, OK? I remembered _that_ dream."

"Dude!?"

"Well I didn't know it was you did I? Not back then, how could I? And besides, I didn't know it happened in that town. Or even that it happened when I was nine. I just remember this one time I had this really vivid dream in which there was this guy who… well I guess, it was you, helped me out."

"Huh… That still doesn't explain why you dreamt about me after I'd left."

"Boy you're really not gonna let this go huh? Fine! I guess… I guess to the naïve and foolish child I was back then, you seemed really cool, and I swear to god dude if you smirk I will punch you in the face. But to me, back then, I remember this guy from this dream, and he seemed really, I don't know, like I said cool. Like brave and calm and like he wasn't scared of anything. And I was scared of everything but he… he said he had my back, made me feel more confident. And I thought maybe that's what it would've been like if I'd had an older brother. I guess I wanted that so badly I dreamt about him for a few weeks after. Nothing as intense as that dream you were in, just stupid stuff… But I remember thinking I wanted to be just like him so that I could make you feel about me the way I felt about him... Which, now that I realise he was you, is just weird as hell."

"So you wanted to be like me?"

"Yeah like I said, naïve foolish child that I was and I _will_ punch you."

"Dude!" And Sam was laughing. "I was trying to be like _you_! In the dream, in your dream, I was trying to be the kind of big brother for you that I always felt _you_ had been for _me_!"

Dean looked at him, dumbfounded, waiting for his brain to catch up. "So wait. Wait… Wait, if I was being like you, while you were being like me, who was being like who first?"

"What?"

"If you said you were pretending to be like the me you'd known me to be as a kid, and as a kid, I was being the you that you'd pretended to be based on the me you'd known me to be, but that was actually based on the you that you'd been for me when you were pretending to be the me I'd been for you, who did it first? You or me?"

Sam blinked. Blinked again. Looked at Dean, but couldn't reply, then shook his head, fearing that perhaps the effort of having tried to follow that sentence may have induced a mild concussion. Or aneurism. Or both. "Dude… Dude I've had waaaay too many beers to even know what the hell to think about that."

"You're not wrong. Time travel man, I tell ya, messes with your head. Maybe we should call it a day."

Sam nodded, but didn't make a move to get up. Over those few days, or just the few hours he'd been unconscious in the warehouse, however you looked at it, he'd seen a lot, learned a lot. Grown a lot. He was grateful for his brother, grateful for all the things Dean had done, but he realised there was something else he was grateful for too, something else that the trip had given him a chance to experience that perhaps he otherwise never would have acknowledged. An insight he'd been previously lacking. Or not lacking, maybe just ignoring, avoiding out of sheer resentment.

That creature had gotten Dean, the child Dean, and none of them had even known. Perhaps it would have gotten Dean no matter what kind of lives they'd led, normal childhood or not. Even if they hadn't been hunters, even if they hadn't been looking for that thing, or known about things like it, maybe Dean would have still gotten caught by it, would have ended up dying because of it, just like any other victim, and Sam would have never known why. Would have just been forced to accept it as a medical anomaly. If they hadn't been hunters, Sam would have never had the chance to save his brother.

But Sam _was_ a hunter, John had made sure of that, had hammered that training into him even though Sam had fought it tooth and nail.

Though Sam hadn't seen much of their father in this trip to the past, and though his feelings towards him were still complex, he'd had the chance to see things he'd missed before. He'd seen the genuine love that John had carried, for all of them. Whether Sam would ever agree with John on anything, whether they would have ever found a way to get along, it didn't matter now. All that really mattered was that John had loved them, in his own way. He'd tried to protect them, to prepare them, taught them to defend themselves against the monsters out there, and he'd done it because he'd loved them. In his own way. Sam had managed to glimpse moments of that love, no matter how fleeting. He had to trust there had been many more moments like that, other moments he'd missed in the same way, first time round.

In the end, maybe John had done what needed doing, had been there when it mattered. In the end, maybe John had saved their lives. And in the end, wasn't that what love was really all about anyway?

"Here." Sam picked up his bottle, indicating to Dean to do the same. "To Dad." He said, raising a toast, surprising Dean and eliciting a smile from him, one of his genuine, deep hearted ones that always made Sam happy.

"To Dad." Dean echoed, finishing his beer, the smile lingering.

"Hey." Sam prompted as they got up to leave for their respective beds. "Think we'll ever know what Dad was doing in that town?"

Dean shrugged supressing a yawn. "Guess not. Guess some things we'll never know Sammy."


	11. Epilogue: The Things You Never Knew…

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 _ **A.N.**_

 _ **No spoilers, however use of character Missouri Moseley who appeared in 'Home' (Season 1, episode 9). This chapter is set back in the past again.**_

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 _ **Epilogue: The Things You Never Knew…**_

… _would only prove how much I loved you._

John Winchester sat on the couch, but looked with every breath like a man about to sprint straight back up and out the door, and despite all her second sight, right then Missouri Moseley didn't trust that he wouldn't.

But he was here, he had come, and that was a miracle in itself wasn't it? She had called him, out of the blue he must have thought, and at first she hadn't believed the number from her vision would work and then when it rang, it was a woman who had answered, and the noise in the background was so rowdy she couldn't help the flash of anger in her at the thought that he was taking those two young boys of his to a roadhouse like that. But the woman on the other end had made it clear that John wasn't there, and then agreed, after a time and guardedly even then, to get a message to him, and Lord knew, Missouri hadn't held out much hope. But he had called her back a few days later, voice gruff and pleasantries missing, and she realised it had been a few years since they'd first crossed paths and even then there had been a darkness in him that at the time she had put down to the grief that was raw and barely a week old. But now, four? five? years later the voice held a dangerous edge and she had to double check with herself to be sure she was doing the right thing. That she wasn't crazy for inviting this man, this family, back into her life. But this, they, were bigger than her, and even as she told herself the future of the world depended on it, and that her role in that play was miniscule, she couldn't quite believe the enormity of what she had been tasked with.

So she had told him what he needed to do and he had listened, and even through the crackling line she could hear him darkening and the rumblings of an argument brewing. But she gave him specifics. She told him exactly which town to go to, exactly when. Exactly which motel to pick and which room to take and which Mom 'n' Pop grocery store to shop from and what to buy and even, God help her, even where to put the receipt! _No, no, no John, you can't just throw it away. Have you even been listening to a word I've been saying? You have to put it in the bag, wedged between the macaroni and the juice._ And even as she'd said it, her own irritation flaring, she could hear how absurd it sounded.

It had been difficult, all of it had been difficult, but she had to make sure he did things exactly, _exactly_ , as he was supposed to, right down to the route he took. Even that had been an issue because it would take them close to a park and she heard him thinking how he avoided those if he could. How he didn't want to give Dean any ideas while he was away. But she had nipped that in the bud right there.

"John Eric Winchester! Don't you even _think_ about arguing with me!" And then she'd softened because suddenly all she could sense from him was the overwhelming worry for his boys, even through all the physical distance between them, and in that moment he was just a parent. Not a marine. Not a grieving vigilante hell bent on revenge. Not whatever kind of near bloodthirsty monster hunter killer he had become. But just a parent, and that was so much more powerful than anything else he would ever be. "I'm sorry John, but you _have_ to trust me. _Please_."

And his silence told her he did. He didn't like it, but he trusted her. Or at the very least, he was open to the possibility that she wasn't his enemy which, given what she knew of him and how he existed, was the best she could have hoped for.

So he had left those boys alone and now, here he was, sitting on her couch. He had burst in before she had barely fully opened the door and in the living room he had turned on her, focussing all that impatient fury at her, demanding an explanation. Missouri was not a woman easily intimidated, but in that moment he had scared her a little. Not because she thought he would hurt her, not because she feared for her own safety. But because for the briefest moment the thought crossed her mind; _what if I'm wrong?_

She was never wrong, she knew that, with a sad weight of the Cassandra curse, she knew she was never wrong. She never doubted herself. But didn't that just prove the power of John Winchester? The power of his terrifying love and desire to protect his family, something so strong it could almost breech the firm foundations of even her own steadfast belief.

Missouri wasn't destined to get married, to have children, the fates had shown her that, and while she lamented it at times, right then, with John Winchester in her living room, a barely contained hurricane in a fragile glass bottle that could easily destroy the whole world if it wanted, she was glad she would never have a husband. Glad she would never be a parent. Not if this was what you could become. Not if this was what the awful power of that love really was. Not if fate could be so cruel as to pick you and your children out to be destined for such sacrificial misery.

She had held up her hands placating, telling him to sit, not asking because she sensed he was just about done with acquiescing to her requests. After a wavering pause, he sat.

"Why am I here Missouri?" And she heard the unspoken _you have exactly 10 seconds to give me a straight answer before I walk out the door_.

"This needs to happen John. Try to understand."

"Understand what? You haven't explained anything!"

"The boys need to do this. They need to go through this. Alone."

"Go through what?" And he was immediately on his feet again, alarmed and glaring at her. "What the hell's going to happen to my sons? I swear to God if anything happens to them–"

"They'll be safe John. I promise. But you need to leave them be, just for a little while."

But he'd already turned to the door, shaking his head furiously. "Why the hell am I listening to you? I should be there with them. I need to protect them."

"They need to learn to protect each other!" She said, almost shouted at his back and he froze. When he turned to face her again, the colour had drained from his face completely and she could see in his eyes the broken pieces of his heart as it crumbled right there in front of her. Because John Winchester was not a stupid man. Sorrow had made sure of that. If you told him one thing, he would understand ten. And right then he had understood what Missouri had left unsaid. _They need to learn to protect each other John, because you can't be there to protect them for ever. You won't be._

He swallowed, the fear still raw behind his eyes, and even the warmth from the candles in her room couldn't lift the pallor of his face. She reached out to him, took his arm, guided him back to the couch. That he let her do it was a sign of just how shell-shocked he truly was right then.

"Listen, John. I promise you, they'll be all right. But you need to trust me. You need to trust what I've seen. Yes you could go back now, yes you could take care of them like I know you want to. You could try to protect them from everything you see, from everything you face in that dark and angry world you live in. And yes, it would help. But only for now. Only for the time being. Not in the long run. In the long run, they'll never learn how to be without you. How to survive without you. And you're not a fool John. Hunters don't live for ever, you know that."

His head was in his hands, but she didn't need to see his face to know his heart was broken for his boys. His voice, when he spoke again, was that of a man who, having seen an awful truth, had been left bereft and stripped of everything, but a man still reaching and clutching for hope, any hope, even if it was as incredulous and ephemeral in its futile promise as smoke would be if you tried to clasp it in your palm.

"What if I stop hunting?"

"Could you?" But then she carried on before he could answer that, because he didn't deserve to have to answer that. "It doesn't matter. If anything, that would be worse. They need to learn this, for themselves, from each other. Their future depends on it, in so many ways." And she didn't say the rest, that the future of everyone, of humanity and heaven and hell and everything in it, it all depended on those two young boys being able to build a love so strong it would weather all the storms ahead. Being able to know that they would always be there for each other. It made her angry and sad and terrified all at once.

"You don't just mean about this week, do you?" John was asking, having put it all together and realising what it meant. Never the stupid man. "You mean I have to leave them alone for… leave them alone more often…"

"They need to learn to be strong. For each other. With each other. They need to build that strength. They need to be ready for the things in the world that you face."

"That _I_ face Missouri. _I_ face. I never wanted them to face those things! I do it so they won't have to. I do it to protect them. All I've ever wanted to _do_ is to protect them from those things. From _every_ thing! I never wanted to put them on a path like this!"

"There's nothing you could have ever done. This would have been their path no matter what you did. All you can do is prepare them the best you can. Make them strong. Make them fighters. Protectors… Survivors."

"…They'll hate me for it, won't they?... God! They'll hate me for it. How could they not? I hate myself… Mary … God! Mary would hate me."

And she couldn't lie to him even though she didn't have the heart to affirm his suspicions. So she just placed a hand on his back.

"We all have to make sacrifices in this life John. And some of us are asked to carry burdens bigger than we think we can bear." And she couldn't help but think of those boys then, but in particular, Sam. That tiny little child, just a baby when John had first come to her, and not much more than that now. All she knew was that somehow in the upcoming week, Sam would have to save his brother, would have to somehow save them both, but she didn't understand how a child, a mere babe could do such a thing or even what it was they would face. She didn't tell John any of that, not when she didn't understand it herself. She didn't even know if it really was Sam who was the saviour, the feelings kept fluctuating between the two boys. All she knew for certain was that they had to be left alone, and that was all John needed to know.

"I don't think I can bear this." John whispered.

"It's because we _can_ bear these burdens that they fall on us John. It's not fair I know. Lord knows I know. But it's our love for those we cherish most in the world that makes those choices bearable. That makes us stronger than we thought we ever could be. What you'll do for your sons, the distance you'll put between you, and you know I don't just mean physically, it's going to break your heart John. It already has. But it's the sacrifice you'll make because you know, deep down, it's what you need to do if you want to protect those boys. If you want to prepare them. You'll do it, because you'll do what needs doing to protect them. You'll do anything and everything because you love them."

And John sighed, the weight of acceptance settling on his shoulders like a burden so heavy, Missouri could have actually reached out and touched it if she dared, and it seemed to her that in that moment John Winchester, already worn out and aged beyond youth, aged two more lifetimes right before her eyes.

"I love them _so_ much." It was the whisper of a broken man, and perhaps it wasn't even words he'd actually said, just something she had heard in the beating pieces of his broken heart, because it was so true and desperate and heart-wrenching that the emotion of it filled the room and she felt as though she was drowning in the sorrow that radiated from him.

And so they sat like that, for hours perhaps, with John becoming reticent and withdrawn, barely even lifting his head. A man in mourning for his children, for his fatherhood, and all Missouri could do was sit there with him and bear the wave upon relentless wave of his endless sorrow as it poured out from him and bled into the world around him.

Eventually he had risen. He had brushed aside her offers of a spare bed, and after eliciting a promise from him, a solemn oath that he would leave those boys be until she told him otherwise, she had let him go. She didn't know where he went or what he found. A bar. A bottle. A brawl. It wouldn't matter as long as he stayed away from them.

All she knew was that he was keeping his promise and that was all she needed to know from him. He called her more than once every day, voice sometimes slurred, sometimes bruised, sometimes so gruff it hurt her to hear it. But every time, it was just the same word. The same question. ' _Now?_ ' And he would hang up before she could say any more than ' _Not yet_ '.

He must have sensed something though, because he returned to her door after a few days. He was sober, which had surprised her. And he was quiet, which had worried her.

He had stayed that way, sitting on her couch, not making a sound while she dealt with her business, dealt with her customers, glancing at him every now and then but giving up on asking him if he needed anything.

And then she had known. Call it a vision or an insight or a feeling, but just like that, she had known that in a few hours, it would be over, knew it would be done.

John had left in twice the speed in which he had arrived. He had refused to wait till morning and she knew he would drive deep into the night to get back to his sons. She had told him he would have to wait till the right time to wake that boy, his eldest, told him what time was safe, and that was all she had managed because just like that, he was gone. They were gone.

She didn't know what they were destined to face, she only knew she would owe them her life. Knew the whole world would owe them their lives. And for two boys to stand up to so much, how could anyone not love them for it?

Sam and Dean Winchester. Two young boys she'd barely ever met and would probably never meet again, who would probably never even know her name.

But she knew theirs and she thanked them. Blessed them and prayed for them and then thanked them all over again.

Wherever they were, she knew things would always be all right in the world as long as they stayed together. And after that night, she knew they always would.

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 _The End._

 _Thank you for reading._


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